


arrow through me

by illgivethattoyou



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Battle of Five Armies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fili and Kili being great brothers because I love them, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Kiliel but also, Post-Desolation of Smaug, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 31,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28842273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illgivethattoyou/pseuds/illgivethattoyou
Summary: As Tauriel watched the white water take him from her sight, she knew the starlight would seem dull until she could see it shine upon his head.As Kíli drifted away from the forest, he knew he would never lay eyes upon a firemoon as beautiful as she.
Relationships: Fíli & Kíli (Tolkien), Fíli (Tolkien) & Tauriel (Hobbit Movies), Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

Built into the stone in the halls of the Woodland Realm is a certain cold. Every elf that spends time there picks it up. They carry it with them at all times, a delicate layer of snow their hearts fold into. It teaches stoicism, distance, diplomacy. But it teaches something else, convenient to the way king Thranduil rules. A willingness to turn a blind eye when the rest of the world calls for help.

Tauriel, brought into Greenwood a youngling, made peace with that sheet of ice. It had been there for many centuries now, long enough to forget it had not always been there. She allowed the elves of the Woodland Realm to teach her whatever they saw fit. She obeyed. She grew within their borders. She fought only the fights she was told to fight, no more. She played by their rules, until a shadow passed through the castle and changed her worldview. The shape she had taken outgrew the limits of king Thranduil. 

The shadow passed through. A dwarf, though tall for his kind, with raven hair and a gentle smile. The soft tone of his voice as he told her stories of the wonders of the sky: it must’ve planted a seed. He filled her with warmth, something she didn’t know she craved all that time. Her heart beat harder; it fought the cold. 

He would leave her the next morning, and an unfamiliar feeling in her stomach lingered throughout the nights to come. 

The feeling was still there as she crouched behind a chimney, peering over to see orcs gathering around a single house. The lights were lit inside. The orcs’ interest was on this house alone; she could only think of one explanation. The dwarves were holed up there. 

Part of her didn’t want to know what became of him. The orc had spoken of a Morgul shaft, a black poison. The dwarf would die, he promised, but he named no timeline. He might already be gone. Thinking of it, it felt as though tar was being poured into her chest. She knew she needed to know. Even if she was terrified of the outcome, there was no way she would not find out as soon as she could. 

The orcs had started to rain down on the building. A glance at Legolas gave her the courage to shift into position. They moved quickly, covered by the dark of night, as silent as their bodies would allow. The closer they got, the louder the screams got. Legolas dragged to release one unarmed dwarf from his struggle with an orc on the dock, but she made for the balcony. 

Moving into the open door, she assessed the situation. Two dwarves were holding the orcs off from three human children. Two girls hid under the table, one boy was trying to fend for himself with what he could. It took her a second. Then she threw herself into the fight. 

She was joined only seconds later by Legolas, who came in through a hole in the roof. They made no unnecessary moves, each and every strike true and intentional. There were many orcs in a small space, and the dwarves and kids didn’t have anything to defend themselves with.

She heard him before she saw him. It was an agonizing scream, a feral hollering in pain. The dagger struck target before she could look at him. Kíli was laying on a cot in the corner, his long hair sticking to his cheeks, his face ashen. The orc had been tearing him away at his damaged leg, and he had fallen to the ground. Tauriel glanced at him sideways as he tore the dagger from the orc’s body and used it to strike another. The orc collapsed, and the dwarf with him, unable to keep his own weight balanced. He fell at her feet, his body fighting for release, screaming in agony.

An orc growled from outside, and the remaining orcs in the house suddenly left the way they came. It looked as though Legolas grabbed three more on their way out, but Tauriel was somewhere else. The two dwarves were bent over the third. She looked on, her heart in her throat. She remembered his kindness, his warmth. She wasn’t sure any of it was in there anymore. 

“We’re losing him!” warned the elder dwarf, and she knew him to be right. He was glistening with sweat, foaming at the mouth. All she could see of his eyes was white. The poison had corrupted his systems. He would not make it through the night.

Legolas beckoned for her to join him, and she forced a shutdown. She needed the cold, the distance, but as she walked onto the balcony, she ran into a fourth dwarf carrying something precious. So very precious.

______________________

Tauriel rested against the wall, her brows furrowed, watching the straw-haired dwarf wet his brother’s forehead with a damp cloth. His name was Fíli, she learned. He had yet declared his gratitude to her; now he worked in silence. Once in a while, he would glance in her direction. He would see her looking, and he would quickly look away again. 

She was left to contemplate the words the raven-haired dwarf had spoken in his state of delirium. _Do you think she could’ve loved me?_

He was sick. He was injured and poisoned, delirious with fever. He couldn’t possibly mean any of it. Could he? She tried to wrap her head around it. Love. An intangible thing, seemingly so far away. The tales of roses so misplaced, compared to what she was feeling. But oh, was she feeling. She felt sixteen, youthful and unsteady, grasping for footsteps to follow in. She felt her chest opening at the sight of him, quivering with longing. She looked at him and she knew who she was. The ice had broken at the borders of her heart. No roses. But the spark, yes. A spark lighting fires on her every inch of skin.

Now, she felt guilt eating at her insides. Legolas was out there. She forced his hand in disobeying his father and his king, and he was now doing the work she set out to do. Currently, she wasn’t doing anything to right Thranduil’s wrongs, and she felt bad. Her heart so heavy she feared falling over if she tried to move, she remained seated. 

Fíli looked at her once more. This time, he held her gaze. Hesitantly, he left his brother’s side and joined her on the floor. The floorboards creaked as he sat, leaving a few feet between them.

“He’s bone-headed,” he said hoarsely, no real intent behind his words. “He’s so eager to prove himself, he neglects himself. He tells no one.” Fíli trailed off, his eyes fixed on the wall opposite to them. “Doesn’t even tell me,” he muttered.

Tauriel could not bring herself to look at his face, and so her gaze lingered on his shoes. She did not have to see his eyes to know that he was distraught. “It’s not your fault.” She meant it, and she hoped he could receive it as truth. 

Fíli looked directly at her. “Why are you here?” he asked, his voice more certain.

She immediately felt shame. “I am sorry,” she managed, her features growing taut as she gathered her strength to rise.

He put a hand on her shoulder. “I do not want for you to go,” he assured her softly. “I just want to know what you came here to do, and what makes that you cannot seem to leave.”

Tauriel stared at him. He had intense eyes, much like his brother. She had to look away to avoid drowning in the questions. _I am drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. He makes me feel as though I could make the world a safe place with my own two hands. He feels like an old friend and a fresh taste of the wilderness. I need him._

She could not say all that, and she dared not lie, so she chose quiescence over both. Fíli was still looking at her intently, until he slumped and rested his head against the wall. They remained silent, until he broke it again.

“He’s talked about you, you know. This afternoon. He was not lucid, but he kept talking about taking a woman to see the stars fall over the mountains at home. I know little about you, but I have seen him looking at you. There is none other he could have talked about.” She could bear to look again, his eyes more gentle now. “I have to try to make sense of all this. I am his brother. Please.”

For a few seconds, they looked at each other. Her eyes fearful, his pleading. Just a few seconds. Then, the dwarf on the table shifted and groaned, and Fíli shot up to help his brother. But in those few fleeting moments, an understanding had passed between them. They both very well knew what Tauriel was doing here.

______________________

Kíli awoke, shivering. His calf pounded, but it was a dull ache compared to what it had felt like before. He let his head roll from side to side, in search of a blanket of any kind. The fur at his feet was far out of reach. He tried to lift his head and found that a wave of nausea overcame him as he did. He tried to reach out with his left arm, but quickly realized that it would be of no use. Defeated, he lay back, folding his arms to preserve some heat. 

To his left, Fíli was sat in a chair, his head tilted back as he slept. He snored softly. Kíli swallowed hard. Feeling almost too exhausted to breathe, he could not bring himself to wake his sleeping brother. 

To his right, something moved. In a flash, there was a tall figure of green and red at his bedside. His eyes took some time to focus. Then he realized. 

“Tauriel—” he breathed. He’d wanted to say it out loud, but his parched throat wouldn’t let anything else pass. She put a slender finger on his lips.

She reached over and put a hand between his shoulder blades. She helped him sit and drink some water. The water was freezing, but he was so thirsty he would have drank it all in one gulp if she let him. Instead, she let him take controlled sips. When he laid back down, she covered him with the furs at his feet. He eyed her gratefully. 

She felt his forehead. “Fever has broken,” she remarked quietly. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been sat on by a mountain troll,” he whispered hoarsely. It made her smile. It was worth all the world to him.

The room started to feel like an ocean, his view bouncing along the waves. It made him nauseated. He groaned and closed his eyes. A cool sensation over his eyelids grounded him a little. When he dared open his eyes in slits, she smiled at him, as she used some cloth to wet his forehead. “Thank you,” he managed.

Her red hair shook about her face. “It’s nothing,” she whispered. “Rest up, you will feel better.”

Mahal, did he want to. But he fought, his eyes trying all to remain focused on her face, her beautiful face. Her gaze lay on her hands, pushing strands of hair from his eyes. “Look at me,” he urged.

She did. Fear, he realized, and guilt. That was all he could see. He reached out blindly for her other hand, and found it on the table. She didn’t hesitate to grab a hold of it. “Tauriel,” he breathed. 

The room was swimming again. No words of comfort appeared at the back of his mouth. He was slipping away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched the hobbit again and fell in love with these two again. Hope you enjoy! I just want to say, I'm leaving the whole idea of Legolas being in love with Tauriel out, so you can just go and forget about that, haha.


	2. Chapter 2

The clouds turned from the deepest black to soft indigo, signaling the arrival of dawn. From the sloop, the children, the dwarves and the elf watched the energy around change. As the people of Laketown made their way onto the shore, the air was filled with naught but the absolute silence of terror. But as more of them approached land, cries of grief came from all around, a haunting sound that tore deep into the hearts of everyone who heard it.

Kíli sat in the bottom of the longboat, his right leg stretched out before him. He looked from the shore to the mountain. Would the company have made it? Was everyone still alive? He knew the price that the people of Laketown suffered; he was there. But his friends, his uncle, Bilbo… A shiver ran down his spine. No, he should have faith. He averted his gaze. 

He meant to look elsewhere, anywhere. But his eyes happened to travel to her. Her auburn locks shone in the light of the rising sun. Kíli had never seen anything quite like it before. Suddenly, he realized why the story of the fire moon had sprang to mind when they talked through the bars in king Thranduil’s prison. 

He caught a glimpse of her face, solemn as ever as she focused on the water beneath. She was using a paddle to make their arrival at the shore as gentle as possible, pushing and pulling in the mud. Then, she exited the boat with cat-like grace, her boots catching in the soft ground. Fíli went to help the children over the edge, and handed the youngest human child to Tauriel. 

Before anyone could say anything, Kíli got up on his feet and swung his bad leg over the edge of the boat. He meant to join the other leg before he exited, but Bofur jumped out right then, making the boat wobble. Kíli, brought off balance, was forced to put his weight on his right leg. It failed him. He grit his teeth in pain as he fell against the boat, desperately trying to relieve the weight. A hand against his shoulder steadied him briefly. 

“It’s fine,” he grumbled to his brother, who looked at him with cautious eyes. Kíli stalked away onto the shore, his leg burning as he tried not to limp. 

Fíli fell in line with him. “We are headed to Erebor soon,” he said, catching Kíli’s arm to stop him. The younger dwarf nodded. Fíli turned back to the boat.

He looked around, until he found her. For a moment, he stood there, just looking at her poised figure in the green robes. She was breathtaking. His heart burned at the thought of that night in his cell. He was her prisoner, but she had never treated him as such. That night, she treated him as a friend, as if prison door nor thousand years of rivalry between their species separated them. He saw in her a fiery wonder about the world, and how it would look if things were more balanced. She had seen cruel things, he trusted as much, but she wanted nothing more than to be good to everyone that deserved it. 

She had saved his life twice. Once by incident, and once because she chose to. And she could have chosen not to. Why should she care? She was an elf, an immortal, impossible being. She was likely several centuries old, and even if not, she would likely grow to such ages. He was a dwarf, mortal. In time, she would outlive him and forget about him. He was a mere speck of dust on her timeline. He could hardly matter much to her, and yet, despite all, he was standing there because she found it in her heart to save his life.

Tauriel turned, and caught his eye. She stared, her lips parting slightly at the sight of him. Slowly, he approached, making sure the pain he felt wouldn’t show on his features. When they were close enough, he halted. Looking up at her, he briefly contemplated grabbing her hand. But he didn’t. Instead he said: ”We will be leaving soon.”

Her gaze left him, going over his head to the shore, where his companions were preparing a sloop for departure. “You will head for the mountain.” It wasn’t a question. It was as if the realization just set in. 

Kíli nodded. He was looking at her face, but she wouldn’t look back. She was afraid, he sensed. There was a magnetic energy around them, the attraction almost tangible: but as she stood towering over him, her elvish features so perfect yet so strange, he knew the world wasn’t there yet. They sought change, enough of it to make it work, but the world wasn’t there yet. 

Tauriel saw the same in him. His broad shoulders and hands a warm hearth that she would sink into if she could. His wild, raven hair seemed to call for her fingers to run through it. His soul was genuine, full of wonder, a wonder she had buried inside herself long ago. She craved it, the adventure, the spontaneity he would bring her. It mattered not; he was a dwarf, she was an elf. They would not belong anywhere.

“Why did you save me?” he finally whispered. Tauriel dared to look down. Their gazes met, and she briefly lost herself in the dark forest of his eyes. She forced herself to come back. He looked vulnerable, but stronger than ever. He felt as drawn to her as she to him, she could tell. And he was unafraid; he was determined to fight for what he wanted.

“Kíli, I—” She trailed off, lost for words. She worried her lip. “I did what anyone would do.”

“You and I know that that is not the truth of it.” His voice rumbled in his chest. “Not any elf, not for any dwarf. There is something else.” He shifted, reaching for her hand. “Just assure me I’m not still in fever dreams, tell me,” Slowly, he brought her hand to his chest until it stilled over his heart. “does yours tell you the same?”

Tauriel couldn’t bring herself to pull away immediately. She gave into the dwarf’s intentions and felt his heart for a few seconds. A quick but solid heartbeat pulsated under her palm. Her eyes rested on his neck as she stood there, letting the rhythm control her breathing. Then she looked into his eyes again, and pulled away.

“Tauriel—” he began, but was cut off by his brother yelling his name. They were pushing the boat off shore. They were leaving for Erebor.

Taking the opportunity, Tauriel stepped away. “They are your people. You must go.” She turned, letting out a shaky breath she had been holding for quite some time now.

“Come with me,” he urged. 

She faced him again, taken aback by his sudden directness. He looked up with a light in his eyes she saw last when they spoke through the bars in the prisons of Greenwood. 

“I know how I feel, I’m not afraid,” Kíli looked pleading, his smile a reflection of what her heart had been screaming all this time. “You make me feel alive.”

 _More than alive_ , she thought. _I’m alive, awake, you instill energy in me I haven’t found in all my time on this earth._ But she didn’t say such. She faced away from him, tears burning behind her eyes. “I can’t.”

He gently put a hand on her shoulder. “Tauriel,” he said softly. “Amrâlimê.”

Inside her chest, her heart stilled. She looked at him directly. She desperately tried to keep her calm. In reality, she was doing everything to avoid giving in. Into the madness, his warmth, his fire. It cost her everything to keep herself from closing the distance between his lips and her own. “I don’t know what that means,” she tried weakly.

“I think you do.” He smiled wide. For a second, she felt all the strength in the world. She could do it. Nothing else would matter if she had him by her side. 

Then, a familiar presensce dropped into the scene. She only sensed it now. Her shoulders tensed. She stepped back. “My lord Legolas,” She used Sindarin. The spell broke, the magic of seconds ago dripping from her arms.

“Take your leave of the dwarf,” her age-old friend ordered. “You are needed elsewhere.”

Kíli tensed as well. He knew that was the end of their conversation, even if he had not understood a word of the exchange. He looked at her once more, then turned to reach the boat that his companions were still heaving off of the shore.

With his back to her, he seemed to pause. When he came back, Tauriel was both afraid and hopeful that he might kiss her, but he didn’t. Instead he opened her hand and pressed something heavy and cold into her palm, closing her fingers over it. Tauriel did not have to look to know what it was.

“Keep it,” he said softly. “As a promise.”

And with that, he turned away and limped towards the water.


	3. Chapter 3

Her heart lay heavy in her chest from the minute he disappeared from her sight. He could very well fend for himself, she knew as much. Even riddled with poison and in unimaginable pain he could still defend his own. But he was reckless, even though he denied it. Fíli confirmed it for her. He was still injured, but ready enough to throw himself into the next fight. 

As they rode from Gundabad, her heart pounded like it had few times before in her life. The horse could not go faster, Legolas had to remind her as she spurred it on for the fifth time. She knew he was right. If it tripped and broke a leg, they would have a bigger problem on their hands. Reluctantly, she adjusted speed.

Now, she walked the bridge between the battleground and Ravenhill. Her eyes followed Legolas, who had gotten hold of one of the immense bats and was flying up to the top of the fort easily. But when her eyes went up, a familiar figure fell into her view. “Kíli,” she whispered. The dwarf was situated on an overhang of the ruin, battling two orcs at once, almost twice the size of him. She began to run.

______________________

Kíli was on fire. His chest felt as if it were to spontaneously combust. His limbs felt as if they could shatter into a million little bits any second. But his mind was sharper than ever. The image of his brother, laying lifeless in the snow, instilled an anger in him that forged him focus he could never bring up before. His strikes were explosive, yet precise, and each and every one true. All pain he had to ignore before seemed to be gone. The orcs fell down in his stride as he made his way up the castle. Azog would regret himself, after Kíli was done with him. He would regret himself and every step he took in his miserable life. 

Only once he rounded the corner where he expected to find the foul creature, he was swung in the face by a bludgeon. It was a powerful blow, sending him flying backward across the stone. 

Something in his chest cracked. The impact with the ground smacked the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath. As he tried to regain himself, he realized it had been Azog himself. Kíli jumped into a fighting stance, looking around. The pale orc had disappeared. Kíli let out a grunt of anger, and went in any direction, in hopes that was the way the monster had left.

He immediately ran into three more of the ugly creatures. A haze fell over him again, his mind going back to his brother, dying in the snow. No real thought ever appeared. Instincts took over. His energy was limitless. He would kill these two, and he would move on until every last one was dead. Fueled by vengeance, he separated their heads from their necks with no less than five strikes. 

Another two came into view. He was prepared. It was is if something had taken ahold of him; as if he were not awake. Until…

“Kíli!” echoed a faint, familiar sound. It was not Thorin, or Dwalin at that. It was a sound that pulled him from the primal version of himself. Had he really heard her? He looked about, but realized she must have been way below, if she really was here at all. The orcs drew his attention back to them, and he returned to the fight. 

He had sent one to the floor when he heard it again. “Kíli!” He was certain now. Tauriel was here, and she was calling for him. He made off with the second orc. “Tauriel!” he yelled in return.

A cry of pain came from below. Hers. He could hear her struggle. He had been moving up the steps to find his enemy, but every instinct told him to go back the way he came. He didn’t dare disobey.

His anger grew again as he descended the steps to where he could hear Tauriel. They would not take everything from him. Kíli wouldn’t let it happen. He slaughtered the foul creatures coming at him from every angle. A roar escaped his lips as he kicked one down the side of the ruin, seeing it dead from that height. They kept on coming though. He got closer to her, but, judging by her pained cries, she wasn’t in great shape. Kíli kept running, becoming less and less aware of himself.

There she was. Over her loomed Bolg, an orc looking much like Azog, in strength and size. Except he had two arms. Not that it mattered. Kíli descended on him from above.

______________________

Tauriel’s world was spinning. She lay upon the frozen stone, forcing air through her bruised throat into her broken chest. Bolg stood over her, his weapon readied. This would be the end, she knew, if she didn’t do something. She should do something. But she could not bring herself to move. Her energy ran out. Her body would not listen any longer.

A shadow poured through the mist, falling over Bolg’s head. Tauriel knew the shadow. It was Kíli, angry as she’d ever seen him. She could see blood soaking his trousers and dripping down his brow, but he did not seem to be bothered by any of it. His sword fell over Bolg’s weapon, and missed target. Bolg threw Kíli upon the stone steps. 

Kíli regained himself quickly, getting up and facing the huge orc again. He threw himself at the creature, ducking under his blade and striking with his own. The dwarf was fast, but Bolg was faster still. Kíli struck him once, but it did not seem to matter. It didn’t take long before the orc held Kíli in his grip. Bolg lifted his blade over his head to strike.

Tauriel was on his back before she herself realized. It was a desperate attempt, a last resort. All she could think of was pulling on the spike, to hold off, just hold off. He shook her off his blade, but she gripped on tight to his collar. With one hand, she unsheathed a dagger and drove it deep into his left shoulder. 

Bolg growled in pain. He was forced to drop Kíli, who sprang away and collected his sword. The dwarf did not hesitate to charge again, the sword tightly in both hands. 

With one and a half arms, the orc picked his battle. He knew his orders. End the line of Durin.

Tauriel tore the dagger away from the pale orc flesh. With both hands, she lifted it and let it come down into the skull of the ugly creature, right as he struck out at Kíli.

The force behind the blow surely decreased, but the spike was sharp enough. It was driven deep into his side. Kíli cried in pain and collapsed, clutching at the wound. As Bolg came down, so did Tauriel. She sailed off of his shoulders and crashed into the stone beneath. Something in her shoulder crackled on impact, and a searing pain shot through her arm. She cried out loud, rolling onto her back. 

Biting her lip, she tried to sit up, her left arm limp in her lap. She looked around, fearful. Kíli was laying a short distance away, breathing hard, both hands on his side. If they were to be attacked now, they were doomed. But the screaming around had fallen quiet for the most part.

Tauriel shuffled forward on her knees. “Kíli,” she managed. “Kíli.”

He looked up, his face contorted in pain. He grit his teeth as he tried to sit up. “Tauriel,” he replied, panting. “You’re wounded.”

“Stay down,” she urged. With her good hand, she reached out to the flesh wound, applying pressure. “Tear my robe. A strip of it.” He looked at her, confused. Carefully, he released his side and took the green cloth in his hands. Using his sword, he tore a long, broad strip of the fabric. 

“Give it to me.” Slowly, she started to wrap it around his torso. He started to understand and took over, tying the binding in a knot at the end. It wasn’t much, but it was tight and compressed the wound somewhat. Tauriel put her hand over it, but Kíli was tearing another strip from her uniform. 

He sat up, grimacing. Tauriel looked at him puzzled. He placed the strip of cloth around her neck. Then, gingerly, he folded the soft fabric around her elbow and lower arm. He tied a knot at her neck.

When he was done, she relaxed her arm, resting in the sling he made. His eyes travelled to hers. He was so close, she felt his breath on her skin. It made her shiver. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He shook his head.

Slowly, she leaned forward.

______________________

The rush of the fight was draining from him quickly. She was so close that he could smell her, the scent of fertile forest floor. “Thank you,” she whispered to him.

The lump in his throat told him that he would break if he spoke. So he shook his head instead. She leaned forward. 

Quick, heavy footsteps approached. Kíli shook himself awake. He was on his feet before he realized, barring the goblin’s weapon with his sword. One hand on his side, he battled the creature, cursing the pain flaring up throughout his body. Soon enough he realized the goblin was not alone. Looking into the tunnel beyond, he saw more appearing through the mist. 

They were at a low point, on an unprotected edge, in between steps. Kíli made up his mind. “Run!” he shouted, pointing along the staircase. 

Tauriel was freeing her second dagger from Bolg’s skull. She looked up and immediately ascended the first few steps, her face in a grimace as she tried to keep her arm still. Kíli followed suit, facing down in order to kick two of the ugly creatures into the gaping abyss to their left.

At the top of the stairs, Tauriel used her one arm to fight an orc that towered over her in height. She stood back to back with Kíli, both fighting their respective enemies best they could. It took all her strength to not be distracted by the grey depth beside her, only two little steps away.

At last, the orc went down. “Go!” she cried, stepping forward onto the stone. 

Kíli sprang up the last steps. He started to tire. Blood loss and grief had started to take their toll on him. Dwarves were resilient, but not endlessly. He stumbled backward until his shoulders found her back. He found strength in the pressure. The stream of goblins seemed endless, but the mist seemed to open up with sunlight. From over the mountains in the distance, the eagles soared into the valley. 

Suddenly, a third fighter joined their party. It was the son of Thranduil, the blond elf from the beach. Kíli could never have guessed he would be happy to see him. He and Tauriel faltered, their motions becoming sluggish. But the attacks became fewer. Little enemies were left on the mountain.

“Kíli!” Tauriel yelled. He looked over his shoulder, following her finger to where it pointed. On the frozen waterfall, he saw him. Thorin, standing on the ice, dodging the continuous attacks of Azog. 

Kíli stumbled forward. How long he could go on for, he could not tell. But Thorin was alone up there. Eyes wide, he glanced at Tauriel. She nodded, pain and grief visible in her face. “Go,” she mouthed.

He huffed out a breath, reached for her hand and squeezed it. For two seconds, he held her gaze, saying the words he could not say aloud. Then, he ran.


	4. Chapter 4

Birds chittered nearby. They were in such numbers that the sound appeared right next to her ear. It was a sound that would normally cheer her up, a reminder of home. As of right now, she would prefer they fly elsewhere.

Her skull wanted out from under her skin, battering against her forehead. Gingerly, she reached up and put her hand over it, in the hopes the pounding would stop. It did not. Protecting her eyes from the light, she dared open them a sliver. 

The space was empty, save for an elf in silver-grey robes. He picked up two bowls, and headed out. Tauriel wanted to call after him, but her throat and chest hurt. With great care, she examined the soft tissues of her neck with her fingers. A ring of bruising could still be felt where Bolg pinned her against the wall, stripping her of breath. She did not need to feel around her ribcage to know most of the cracks were yet unrepaired. 

Her eyes had been on the spot where the elf disappeared for a while now, but the information had needed long processing. And with good reason: it was most illogical.

The birdsong did not just remind her of home. She _was_ home.

Confusion thickened the mist in her head, until she wanted to cry. King Thranduil had her banished. She pointed an arrow at his head. By all means, the only place she should be in Greenwood was behind bars.

Bars.

Her eyes opened wide. Kíli. He disappeared from her sight at Ravenhill. Now, he was across the lake. He could be dead, for all she knew. 

Her heartrate picked up. Her mind suddenly cloudless, she tried to rise. Her left shoulder screamed. A loud groan came over her lips. She shut her eyes and tried to relax every muscle in order to extinguish the fire in her arm. She cursed herself. 

Footsteps approached. “You would do well to lay still,” a most familiar voice spoke.

She blinked slowly. Legolas crouched at her bedside, until she could look him directly in the eye. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

Tauriel had more pressing questions. She shook her head. “Why am I here?”

“Well,” he began, hesitation ringing out in his voice. “It was a strange moment, after the battle was done. Do you remember?” 

The battle, she remembered. She remembered standing back to back with Kíli, enemies approaching from all sides. She remembered him running away. After that, her memory was clouded. 

He did not wait. “When we came down into Dale, you were all but dying,” His voice trembled ever so slightly. “If the fight held any longer, we would not be speaking right now.” 

Tauriel nodded. His hand rested on the mattress. She reached out and folded her hand over his.

He accepted the touch, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “My father took one look at you and ordered to take you home. I do not know his motives. I wish I did.”

“Home,” she languidly repeated, her eyes drifting from his face. Her gaze fell on a stool nearby, and discovered a familiar stone with unfamiliar lettering. The sight of it amplified her longing to hear his voice again, bringing forth words she could not translate, but understand all the same.

They remained in silence for some time, until she dared speak the words in her head out loud. “I have to go back.” She said it quieter than she intended, and cursed herself for it. 

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I know,” he said. “I know you do. And I know you to have very little patience. But these,” He curled up the blanket near her leg, showing a healing flesh wound she had not fully registered until now. Then he gestured to her neck and shoulder. “are no minor afflictions, Tauriel. You are injured, and you are depleted. Healing will take time, more than you wish to spare.”

______________________

The next time she woke, she realized just how powerful the ointment was they had been using on her leg. Her heart seemed to have travelled into her thigh, where it beat with thrice its normal power. She grimaced. Unwillingly, she looked to the table nearby, hoping to find some of the salve.

“It will heal quicker without.” As though he had read her mind. He stood facing the window, his long gown in the colors of the night sky sweeping the floor. 

“My lord Thranduil,” she said, as she had many times before. But the words tasted foul, untrue. “I did not expect to be here again.”

“You do not deserve to be,” He was not an elf of kind words or white lies. He would tell the truth or nothing at all. “Yet here you are.” As if that surprised him, he turned his head to face Tauriel. Solemnly, he moved toward her, but stopped to inspect a painting. He must have seen it before, as he had lived in the same castle for a few millennia. 

“Yet here I am,” she repeated.

Thranduil looked up again. “Tauriel, I have been patient with you,” he announced. “I have given you everything when you had nothing. I have favored you, treated you as if you were my kin.”

“And for that, I am grateful,” she replied. It was the truth.

“But I knew,” Thranduil went on. “Legolas trusted he could make you his equal. If he had such power, he would make you his sister. He trusted you to become one of us. But I knew.” He stared at her intently, his gaze burning a way through her skin and bone to reach her essence. “One day, you would disappoint me greatly. I must say, I never expected it to be over your sudden love for a dwarf.”

Her chest singed. Thranduil used the word carelessly. He did not care for any dwarf, or any other creature on, in or above this earth. But she did, and she wanted to. The elves had a broken understanding of the world around them. Tauriel could not live with it any longer. She could name at least one dwarf that did not fit the picture. Not in a thousand years had she longed for someone as much as she longed for him.

“I elected to trust in my son,” the king continued. “That, I do not regret. He did not disappoint me. In fact, neither did you. You simply did what I expected of you.” 

Tauriel swallowed hard. “So, what now?”

“Now,” He wandered back to the window. “the game ends.” The sunlight caught in his hair, and reflected it like freshly fallen snow. He gazed out to the forest. “You will be stripped off your position on the guard. You will take your belongings and leave the castle, as soon as you are fit to travel.” Thranduil turned, gliding towards the door slowly. “You will be allowed to remain in the Greenwood, if you so please.”

The words sank in. Tauriel nodded solemnly. Unsummoned tears fought their way up, but she fought them down harder. She would not cry, she promised herself, her eyes fixed on the back of his cloak as he strode from the room.


	5. Chapter 5

Light flickered in and out of his vision. It was soft, yellow, a single fleck in the darkness. The little star blurred between his lashes. _Star_ , he thought, pushing the fog in his head around to match a face to the word. When he frowned, he regretted it instantly. The motion burned his forehead. He groaned, and reached up to feel for the problem.

“Easy, lad.” A familiar voice. Gently, a pair of calloused hands wrapped around his wrist and lowered his arm. 

A pile of rocks sat on his chest. He tried to inhale deeply, but the attempt to open his lungs resulted in a bout of coughing that tore through his ribcage like a thunderstorm. When he finished, he let his head roll back in the pillow, his shallow breathing causing sharp pains in his side.

Slowly, he blinked his eyes open. The star was a candle, he saw, as more of the room fell into focus. It was dark, aside from a few candles dancing in the space. Dwalin he could make out in the faint light. The balding dwarf stood with his back turned. Then he approached, and slid his hand behind Kíli’s neck. “Come on,” he urged quietly. “A drink of water.” 

With great effort, Kíli rose up enough to sip the water from a bowl. As the drought in his throat started to feel a little more manageable, the world came back to him. With the clarity came the grief he had not allowed himself to feel on the battlefield. His chest felt twice as heavy as he remembered.

His brother was dead, his uncle had been dying. He lost Tauriel from his sight. She was not here. Why wasn’t she here?

Dwalin set the bowl down. The older dwarf rested his hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Kíli,” he said, and waited until their gazes met. “Your brother lives.”

The words struck him. They swirled around before his eyes, almost tangible, before he could make sense of them. His gaze, well-adjusted to dark spaces, reached past Dwalin and fell onto the next cot. 

No mangling in the world could make Fíli unrecognizable to his own brother. It was him. Kíli could not comprehend it. He sought the words to the questions he needed to fill in the blanks, but the room started to swim. “Oh,” was the only thing to come over his lips, before the space faded out again.

______________________

The next time Kíli awoke, the room was a lot brighter. Focusing his sight against the daylight took longer, but he could see everything. It was a tent, yellow from the inside. Around the room, there were few other cots. Some were filled, some were not. He looked at an empty one and imagined how the person who had filled that spot had the best or the worst happen to him.

Unwillingly, his mind rewound to the last few minutes he spent on the battleground. Slipping on the ice as he made his way to the frozen lake. The sight of Thorin, Bilbo at his side. His whole body starting to tremble from deep inside of him as he rushed over. The eagles had come, but too late. Kíli had come too late. 

And Tauriel. He left her behind, with no way of knowing what would become of her. His fingers travelled down, to where the runestone had sat heavy in his pocket before. All he found now were tender bones beneath bruised skin.

Next to him, Fíli lay still. Looking more closely, his eyes were opened. 

“Brother,” Kíli managed, his throat dry.

But Fíli heard him. He turned his head. “Brother.” Relief glazed over his eyes and lips.

For some time, they lay there, staring at one another. Kíli observed him. He looked alright, other than tired, but the blanket covered him up to his shoulders. It scared him to think of what might be under it. “I thought you were dead,” Kíli finally rasped. Immediately, a bout of coughing picked up, setting his chest on fire. The more he wanted it to end, the deeper they seemed to cut. He was left gasping for breath, clutching both his sides.

Fíli looked on, his face contorted in fear. While his brother stilled and caught his breath, he quietly admitted: “I thought you would die.” He bravely spoke as if it was not on his mind still.

Cautious of a recurrence, Kíli spoke much more quietly. “What day is it?” he began. “What happened?” 

“I believe almost seven days and nights have passed,” Fíli whispered back, keeping the tone low. “Dáin found me. Elven healers have been working here. Dáin did not like it much,” His crooked smile did not go past his lips. “but he knows they have magic no dwarf healer can access.” The look in his eyes carried meaning that Kíli immediately grasped. He nodded.

“And now?” Kíli asked. “How are you?”

Misery painted Fíli’s features. The brothers had seen each other in the face of defeat before, but Kíli had never seen his brother like this. Fíli blinked, let his focus drift to Kíli’s hands. “They have done all they could,” he started, the hollow words ringing out in the space between them. “but my legs will not obey me. They say, they might never again do so.”

The dark-haired dwarf stared ahead, his view blurring. Another cough sliced through his chest, rattling his ribcage, but it never hurt as much as the guilt he felt, looking upon his brother like this. Behind his eyes, the image appeared of Fíli assuring him that he would handle the upper levels of the tower. Kíli should never have left him there. 

He went back to the battleground, crimson pools in the snow dancing behind his eyes. “Uncle?” he whispered, his eyes pleading, although he very well knew. He felt twenty again, small, in need of guidance, craving the comfort of his brother’s arms above all else. But he was no longer twenty. When Fíli gave his head the slightest shake, unable to voice the truth out loud, Kíli did not cry. 

Slowly, against all warning signs his body tried to give him, he pushed himself to the very edge of the cot, and stretched out his arm. When Fíli stretched out his, their fingers met in the middle. They interlocked, curling around one another to form a steady bridge. The brothers lay in silence, letting the grief sit in their every breath. 

Quiet as he could, Kíli started to hum. It was a song from home, tasting of humid mountain air and smoke. Long pauses fell between lines, where he had to regain his breath, yet he held until the end. 

The song ended, and Fíli nodded, almost unnoticeable. He voiced the thought that had drifted between them: “I must take the crown.”

Kíli let out a controlled sigh. “The king of Erebor,” he breathed, the words empty as never before.

Crushed, Fíli averted his gaze. “No dwarf will follow me, if they cannot follow me into battle.” The words came out barely audible. 

Weakly, Kíli squeezed his fingers, until their eyes met once again. “You will be my king,” he promised. “I will follow you anywhere.”


	6. Chapter 6

Night had fallen. A single strip of moonlight dribbled in, laying its fingers on slate gray stone and artfully dyed tapestries. Through the nightly hours, Tauriel would watch it shift from wall to wall. 

Anxiety buzzed in all her limbs, resembling four active beehives. Her departure from the Greenwood castle was long overdue. Physically, she was there, lying under elven-woven wool, healing at the hands of elven practice. But in her mind, she was in Dale, looking for Kíli. Every one minute spent in Thranduil’s castle was a minute spent without knowing where he was, and whether he still had breath.

Unable to fall asleep, she straightened up. Moving carefully, she shuffled to the edge of the cot. She planted her feet on the ground, the cold stone depriving her soles of warmth. Her ribs felt a lot better than they had. When she breathed easy, it hardly bothered her at all. Yet when she sat up, her body felt miserable as before. Her left arm dangled over her chest in a sling, her shoulder shaking with the beat of her heart. Her right leg already protested at the gentle force of the floor pressing into her feet.

Even so, she could not stay down any longer.

Thranduil had been right, she was healing faster, but the torn muscle in her leg could not exactly enjoy her premature attempts to walk. Slowly she rose, clutching at a windowsill, balancing on her left leg. When she stood, she carefully shifted her weight. 

It took most of her strength to keep from crying out. She could not suppress a groan. Her teeth set, she remained on two legs, favoring one over the other, and took a staggering step forward.

Under normal circumstances, Tauriel would understand that she was in no state to travel. She really was not, but the very air in the castle caught in her throat, constricting her airways. The need to leave was too great. 

After six feet, the room was spinning. Closing her eyes appeared no remedy; it only added more dimension to the movement. Weakly, she peered over her shoulder. The bed seemed so far away from where she stood. Her breathing grew ragged as panic rose up in her throat. Looking forward, to the window, she wished she could fly out from the balustrade.

Just then, a quick footfall approached from down the dark hallway. Two firm hands steered her away from the wall. She slumped on his shoulder. “I have to go,” she mumbled, nauseous from all the sudden movement.

“Tauriel,” Legolas began adamantly. “This is madness. You can hardly walk. You cannot ride, you cannot defend yourself. Where do you expect to go?” With certain hands, he guided her back to the bed. 

She cried out when she sat down. Tears started to form and roll down her cheeks. Old tears they were, long buried, protected in the stronghold of her ribcage. Every sob was a punch to the chest, but they could not be held back. 

She wanted out, to flee to Erebor and run its gate down. Through the blur of lashes and salty film, she could look at the place where the runestone sat at her bedside. It stared her down, caressing her and instilling terror simultaneously. It was a promise between them, and she felt it tearing with the passage of time. She wanted to make good on it. She would find him, and she would hold him close until they fell into the earth.

Tauriel cried until her breath ran out, and was left fighting for air to enter her lungs. Legolas sat next to her, a warm hand resting on her thigh, patiently letting the storm come and go. When it did finally come to rest, he moved his hand to her back, rubbing softly. “I will take you,” he muttered. “I know you cannot stay here much longer.” He was not talking about his father’s will.

Trembling with anguish, she looked at him. Remembering Thranduil’s words, she realized she didn’t disappoint anyone like she did Legolas. Her age-old friend, who had been by her side since she was young. A tiny elfling, severed from the light, she came to him, and he brought it all back to her. Now, she was leaving him behind. Words got lost in the fog of her mind.

“I’m leaving soon,” he admitted, his eyes travelling to where the light of dawn fell in, washing away the moonlight. “North and west from here. The world will be changing from here on. My father has given me a task.” Solemnly, he gazed forward, folding his hands in his lap.

The right thing would be to ensure him that he would not go it alone, but Tauriel could not have promised him such. In silence, she studied the taut muscles in his jaw. He would go. She would not follow. Not this time. 

She did not have to tell him. He did not expect her to say anything. “I will take you to Dale,” he vowed. “But no sooner than you can walk out of here on your own.”

As much as her body would allow, she leaned sideways and let her head fall on his shoulder. He returned the gesture. The gentle pressure on her crown assured her that this was no friendship coming to an end. 

A deep quiet fell between them as they watched the sun pour into the room.

______________________

It took her another day to rise from the bed again. Another four had passed before she managed to walk the hall up and down. Legolas did not like it, but he agreed: it was enough. All he wanted was for his best friend to walk from her childhood home with dignity. 

Tauriel was not worried about her dignity. She worried for her friend, setting off on his lonely quest. And she worried for Kíli, running every possible scene through her mind. The more she thought about it, the more guilt she found eating at her stomach. They should have gone with him. 

Legolas had wrapped up the few belongings she had left. He had a new bow made for her, identical to the one she had, even though she could not currently handle it. “You don’t look complete without it,” he had smiled. Carefully, he had strapped her weaponry to her back.

Now, she stood at the top of a winding staircase she had not yet dared to descend. Legolas was at her side, lightning in all his limbs, ready to catch her should she fall. That would not happen, she promised herself. Elves were mostly private creatures, but they would be looking discreetly from where they could. She would not fall.

A cloak hung over her shoulders, covering her faltering steps and bandaged arm when she walked a horizontal surface, but the staircase would not hide anything. With her right hand, she clutched the rail until her knuckles went white. With her left leg, she descended the first step, to slowly join the right leg. Very slowly, they came down.

By the time they reached the horses, Tauriel was exhausted. Her leg burned, she felt trapped within her ribcage. She showed no such thing to Legolas, boldly resisting his wordless offer to help her into the saddle. She had mounted a horse with one arm and one leg before. 

This time though, her other leg was stiff, and her good arm tugged at her chest, muscles expanding painfully between damaged bones. She set her teeth and rose to the challenge, full well knowing she would have to make the descent on her own. 

Tauriel set her horse onto a steady pace, and they were off. When she looked back, she could see the distance growing between her and what once was her home. _New dawn will break_. She forced herself to turn her head, her face into the rising winter sun.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Should give a warning of something resembling an anxiety attack in this chapter. It's not very graphic or long, but I figured I should put a little warning just the same. :)

Ghosts drifted over his lips as he staggered onto the rampart. The day was bright for his dark-adjusted eyes. Snow caught in his hair as the frozen air caught in his throat, causing his lungs to launch a new bout of coughing, sharp and fiery, to counter the cold. He doubled over, regretting the climb a little. 

He would admit no such thing to Balin, who had very reluctantly agreed to let him go. The older dwarf steadied him now, resting a firm hand on his shoulder as Kíli caught his breath and huddled deeper in his cloak. He limped forward, peering through the parapet wall onto Dale. 

It was close to midday. People halted their tireless building and gathered about fires. They shared fish and potatoes roasted over the flames. Meaningless jests rose from the town square, none that he could really hear from way up there. 

Kíli stared, the scene reminding him of different days, when the halls of his home were not ridden with anguish. A grievous thought had settled in his mind, one he could not seem to shake. He would look at the empty throne and wonder. He would look at his brother in his sickbed, staring at the wall before him, and wonder.

_Had it all been worth it?_

Kíli did not care for treasure. He had thought he did, but his loss assured him there were far more precious things in this world. Uncle Thorin had named Erebor their birthright; the gold within its halls a given for the sons of Durin. But Kíli could not help but question why it was Thorin’s birthright to lose his life before he were ever crowned king. 

He would give all gold to hear another tale from his uncle. He would give all gold to see his brother smile again.

He had come here to breathe some fresh air. Well, that is what he told Balin. It’s what he told himself, even though he knew that had never been his sole purpose. As he stared out past the battlements, his eyes scoured the hills around, hoping for a flash of auburn and emerald against the snow. 

After the battle was done, he had fallen unconscious, his body desperate to heal. Only seven days and nights later did he wake, and she was gone. No elf had seen her go by. Kíli was not one to assume the worst, but the quiescence in the halls of the Lonely Mountain rang out, piling up the darkness in his head. He feared his promise failed him when he left her on Ravenhill, and he would never see her again.

“Are you looking for something, lad?” Balin missed nothing. He could see Kíli’s eyes carefully raking over the landscape, investigating every stream, hill, treetop. 

Kíli abruptly refocused his gaze on the town beneath. “No.” He shook his head.

Balin had watched Kíli grow. They were not closely akin, but Kíli and Fíli had always felt as if they were his own nephews. The duo had always been terrible at hiding things, Kíli especially. 

Although in bad shape, Kíli had been restless since they moved into the mountain. He would hold strong at his brother’s bedside, but would toss and turn at night, and tire himself out during the day, fidgeting and dragging himself too far from his bed every time. The bruises beneath his eyes seemed to grow blacker. In the bright light of day, it looked worse.

Balin remembered a careless, reckless young dwarf, running head-first into danger, his brother on his heels. Kíli appeared a ghost of that dwarf now, peering out over the valley. 

From the lot of them, Kíli was least like a dwarf, it seemed. The dark-haired youngster had always felt need for adventure, the long days and nights in dark halls smothering him rather than making him feel at home. For as long as Balin could remember, Kíli held great wonder about the world around him. The young dwarf had a special talent in seeing the best in everyone. What was titled wrong, could be named right, he was convinced. 

Which is why it did not come as a great shock when Fíli informed him about the elf maiden.

Surprise, certainly. Not ever before had Balin heard of a dwarf falling for an elf, or the other way around. He did not think he would see it during his time. It was an ancient rivalry, a score that would not settle for millennia, if it were ever to be settled at all. 

But no shock. If it were to happen to any dwarf, it would happen to Kíli. Clear as day, Balin could recall his face when he was merely twenty years, his dark eyes glinting with marvel at stories of strange species in every corner of the world. Looking at him now, he knew the same little dwarf was still in there.

The pair stood side by side, their gazes spreading over the white world beyond the stone. It was then that Kíli dared voice his thoughts. “What has this quest brought us, Balin?”

Balin sighed, having expected a question like it, sooner or later. A hush fell between them, only broken by the gentle rushing of the wind and the echoing voices from below. It took the older dwarf long, but he admitted it. “Not more than we have lost.”

Kíli said nothing. It was what he had been thinking, but not what he expected to hear from any other dwarf in the company. When Balin spoke the words, he felt a little bit stronger.

______________________

The cold and his exhaustion brought him down with fever the next day. Óin could not appreciate it much, his herb storage running low and the growth being scarce. He came to change his and Fíli’s dressings, and to assess the damage. “I suggest you sleep it off, lad,” he grumbled. “I’ll come back later; if you start talking nonsense, maybe I have something for ye.”

Sleep; a most effective medicine. Kíli had not gotten any in days, roughly waking from ugly dreams each time he dared close his eyes. It was clear that, although unspoken between them, Fíli had the same problem. Side by side they lay in the dark, wordlessly waiting out the morning.

The torches in the room had been lit to mark the arrival of day, the only connection to the rhythm of the world. Usually, Kíli would be up, trying desperately to make himself useful somewhere, until some dwarf of the company dragged him back to his room. 

Then he would sit and talk to Fíli, trying to find light in the situation, not sure what else to say. Every word he said would ring empty, as if they were not brothers anymore, as if they had not been inseparable friends for over seventy years.

The task of smiling seemed impossible now. Kíli drifted in and out of a heavy fog under his furs, interrupted by painful coughing fits. The fog cleared a bit when Óin finally returned, with supper.

As Kíli had in all previous days in the mountain, he clambered out of bed and fell into a chair at Fíli’s side, as Óin helped him come upright. Then the older dwarf left them to eat dinner together.

In silence, Kíli peered into the bowl. It looked good: stew with barley and carrots and mushrooms. Still, he wasn’t tempted to take a bite. 

Next to him, Fíli set the bowl down, also untouched. “Brother,” he began quietly, reaching out for Kíli’s arm. “You should eat. You’ll feel better.”

Kíli’s head was spinning, the dark room suddenly snaring him in. His hands trembled as he set the bowl down. He sank his head into his hands, the air of the room too thick to breathe. Fíli reached out for his hand, and he grasped it gratefully, although he did not dare look him in the eye. For a while, he sat like this, breath passing through his chest in quick circles until it caught in his throat and caused him to cough again. His chest would explode, he was certain; until it didn’t.

The room was just the room again, and all pain he felt was pain he had been feeling all this time. His limbs felt weak, shaking uncontrollably. “I’m sorry,” he panted, his head still down, his fingers still tightly around his brother’s hand.

“Kíli,” his brother said, urging him to look up. Their gazes met, Fíli’s eyes every bit as tired as he knew his own were. “You’re not alright. You cannot go on like this.”

“What _can_ I do?” he whispered. The tears that followed were impossible to restrain. “If I sit here, I wonder why it is that I am unharmed, while you have lost your legs, and uncle Thorin lost his life. What am I doing here?” 

“You are _not_ unharmed, Kíli,” his brother spoke sternly. “Look at yourself. You have taken as many blows as any of us, and more. You mustn’t be ashamed because you can walk.” After a pause, he added: “If you don’t rest, you too might lose that advantage.” 

Kíli knew it hurt Fíli to speak those words out loud. Frustrated, he cleared his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I know,” he rasped, resting his forehead in his palms again. “But it is too much for me, to sit here and worry about you, about us, about—” 

He cut himself off in time. Although she was in his mind more than he would have liked to admit, he kept all his thoughts to himself. The dwarves would not comprehend, or would simply be confused and lost as to what to do with the information. Kíli especially didn’t want to bring it up with his brother, who had enough to process as it was.

But when the dark-haired brother did not finish his sentence, Fíli did. “You worry about her,” he filled in.

Kíli looked up, stilling in place like a deer faced with a hunter’s arrow. Fíli looked back, unfazed. “Yes,” he confessed quietly.

“You are in love with her.” 

It was no question. Kíli nodded, his dark eyes flitting away from his brothers’ set of blues. 

Grimacing, Fíli set his hands down and dragged his upper body to the other side of the bed, wordlessly encouraging his little brother to sit in next to him. Carefully, Kíli climbed in beside him, finding warmth and comfort against his brother’s shoulder. The shaking in his hands eased. He picked up the bowls of now cooled stew, and handed one to Fíli.

The silence as they ate was of different nature than it had been in the days before. It had a familiar sound; the promise of things getting better.

When Fíli woke, Kíli lay snugly against him, the heat bringing him comfort. It had been long since they had slept like this last. It was not the reason he had woken, though. Óin was standing over them, shaking him at the shoulder gently. 

“We discovered an elf maiden knocking at the gate,” he informed, nodding to Kíli, still softly snoring at Fíli’s side. “It’s her.”


	8. Chapter 8

When she had considered riding from Mirkwood to the Lonely Mountain, she had envisioned a day’s ride. The wind in her hair, the sun at their backs. The factual distance was not immense, and could have been nothing to experienced riders such as Legolas and herself.

She had not at all factored in the fact that her body would protest her horse’ every step, or that she would tire before the sun rose to its highest point in the sky. Neither of them had accounted for snow, sheathing them in a blanket of white as they rode. The cold crept into her bones, making her shoulder feel as though wolves were clawing at it from the inside. 

Tauriel awoke on the third day, her cloak frozen stiff about her. The fire had doused as they slept. Legolas was trying to get it going again, but the snow drew into the wood and soaked it thoroughly. She accepted his help this time when mounting her horse, her leg and chest throbbing under the freezing cold.

Slowly, they continued on their way, warming up by the movement of the ponies.

“We should reach Dale by evenfall,” Legolas said, guiding his mare along a narrow trail. She was a stout creature with thick, chestnut fur, well-adjusted to cold and mountain pathways. Tauriel rode her brother, a black-and-white copy, who followed his sister anywhere. 

She could sense Legolas aching for adventure. He had endless patience with her, but she could almost smell the tingling in his ribcage at the thought of riding off on his father’s quest. Legolas was true, obedient, endlessly loyal: but he was also a son of the wind, made to ride the vast, grassy plains underneath wild skies. He must have gotten it from his mother, Thranduil was nothing like it. But for once, his father had seen it in him, and given him the freedom.

“Will you be leaving tonight?” she questioned.

Her friend turned his head, looking pensive. “Do you want me to?”

Tauriel frowned. “I would not _want_ for you to leave, mellon nîn,” she said. “but you must not delay your departure for me.”

They rode in silence for some time, their hair slowly gathering snowflakes, until her hair was as white as Legolas’. Through the endless curtain of crystals, the shape of the Lonely Mountain appeared against the grey. The trail grew narrower, and then widened again, curling around the hillside like a cat’s tail.

When the track allowed it, Legolas held in until he rode up beside her. “Tauriel,” he began. “What will you do once we reach Erebor?”

She could have given him the simple answer: knock on the gate. She knew, however, that that was not his question. Legolas asked the question she had been avoiding herself. What would happen after she knocked?

Tauriel had avoided thinking about it, because she was afraid the door would open and then shut in her face: final. It was a possibility, although unlikely. More likely was her walking in to find the dwarves looking down on her, chewing and spitting her out like a tobacco leaf. They would not stand a chance. She would turn and leave, to never set foot in there again. 

Three more options. Kíli could have changed his mind. She dared hope it was the least likely option, absentmindedly rubbing the stone in her pocket.

The most devastating one. She could find him dead and buried. It dawned on her that there was a great chance this was the case. Tauriel swallowed hard, her heartrate picking up as she quickly shoved the thought away.

If anything, she would not dare consider the last. Not out loud. It had a thought of her holding him in her arms, unharmed, knowing that he would be there for the rest of his life, for however long it would last. The odds were spectacularly against this particular idea, so she tried to put it to rest. All she wanted was to know him to be alive. 

“I do not know,” she admitted, her voice insignificant in the endless white world around them. “But then again, what does it matter? I do not have any place else to be.”

Legolas nodded, overthinking her words. Then he said: ”You can always come find me.” 

When Tauriel looked at him, puzzled, he continued. “Stay in Dale until you’re healed. They have no grief with you. Then you can ride out to find me,” he spoke, holding her gaze. “You do know, you will always have a home with me.”

She _did_ know: the sentiment was two-sided. Yet hearing him say it out loud put a lump in her throat that silenced her. She nodded. He acknowledged it with a shake of his head, and pulled ahead again. 

The Mountain loomed in the backdrop, growing more defined against the sky as they trod on. Tauriel stared at the back of her friend’s cloak. Faced with the uncertainty of the future, she could not help but miss him already.

______________________

Darkness had long began to settle when they rode into Dale. The town was quieting down for the night, smoke being emitted from every chimney as the former people of Laketown huddled around fires in their new homes. Despite the darkness, it was plain to see that the rebuilding of the dragon-ruined city was happening at remarkable speed. Buildings had risen from the ground within a fortnight, nearly finished. Old ruins had been repaired, now flooded with warm light and friendly voices.

When Tauriel descended from her horse, she felt as though the wind could take her down with the most gentle gust. Her limbs were trembling with exhaustion, the pain in her leg and shoulder making her head swim. When Legolas tasked her with the guarding of the ponies as he went around for a place to stay for the night, she was certain she would black out before he returned. 

As dusk had fallen, the endless snowfall had receded. The sky had broken open and revealed now the infinite black over her head, a stark contrast with the white beneath her feet. Unsteady, she leaned on the black-and-white animal as she gazed upward. The stars blinked at her, in different colors, if she looked closely. _This is forward_ , they seemed to call.

Some time passed before Legolas returned. When he did, she was sat puddled in her cloak, gazing at the night’s freckles over the mountainside.

“Come on,” he urged, offering his hand. “I’ve found us shelter.”

In a half-repaired barn of stone, Legolas began to build a fire. Apparently, he had paid coin for the place, because a young man came to bring them some food. Her cloak hung out for drying, and she sat as near to the fire as she dared, her hands around a bowl of soup. It smelled gloriously savory, and tasted just about as nice. 

When her cloak dried, she curled up into it, settling against the horses. Legolas remained by the fire, sharpening his daggers in certain, repetitive motion. The continuous swish of stone to metal lulled her to sleep.

______________________

The day broke, and with it came the clouds of the day before. Legolas squinted at the sky, trying to discover any threat of a snow storm, but the blanket of white stretched endlessly in every direction, a perfect reflection of the ground. 

She was glad he stayed the night. Only once she woke up to see him saddle his horse, she realized just how much she would miss her best friend. All through the early morning, a sense of loss trickled into her throat and filled her chest. Even if this was not a definitive goodbye, it was a goodbye of a different nature than ever before. 

Thranduil did not just tear Tauriel from her home; he also cracked the closeness she and his son always shared. This was no ‘fare well on your travels, we will meet again when you return’, this was ‘perhaps we can meet somewhere by chance when you come around’. Her heart ached at the thought.

He was now strapping her weapons to her back once more, making her appear as dangerous as ever. They both knew better, and Tauriel smiled lightly as she tugged at her cloak to conceal her bandaged arm. 

“There,” he muttered. 

Tauriel turned to face him. _Goodbye_ hung between them like an old ghost, sitting on their lips cold and unspoken. With her right hand, she reached out. He met it in the middle, his grasp gentle but firm. 

“Tauriel,” he began, his gaze holding hers steady. “If all goes well,” He paused, leaving her to gather the words he purposefully emitted. “you mustn’t forget, the woodlands call to you.” In two quick pulses, he squeezed her hand. “You are a servant of the light, mellon nîn. No matter where your heart goes; if it runs into darkness, you must not follow blindly.”

Solemnly, she nodded. “Thank you, Legolas.” The words sat fragile in her mouth. “You have given me much that I fear I do not deserve.”

A soft chuckle came over his lips. He averted his eyes, his glance travelling to the mountain behind them. “You are deserving of more than you realize,” he spoke, releasing her hand. “Best you start believing it now.” 

With a smile, Legolas looked back at her. “We will meet again soon,” he promised. 

“Soon.” She smiled back at him as he mounted his horse. By manner of greeting, he raised his hand. Then he steered the animal around and galloped away. 

Tauriel watched until the narrow street took a turn and he disappeared from her sight. Then she turned, and set her eyes upon the mountain.

With great effort, she managed to get up on her horse by herself. At her urging, the creature began a steady pace towards the gate of Erebor.

Tauriel had dreamt about Kíli, on Ravenhill. She had dreamt of his blood coloring the snow crimson as he lost the battle to the enemy. In the dream, she had watched from a distance, unable to reach him. 

As the distance between her and the gate grew shorter, the urge to turn around grew greater. She could run, and isolate herself until the sons of the sons of the sons of the dwarves in this mountain had passed away, so she would never know what became of him. 

Simultaneously, a fire started under her skin, making the pulse of her heart perceivable in her fingertips. When she halted before the great stone doors, the fear was long overwhelmed by intense longing.

One last time, she descended from the pony. She staggered backward when her feet hit the fresh snow. Gently, she patted the animal’s nose. “Go home,” she whispered to him. “while you have one.”


	9. Chapter 9

A voice came booming from the battlements. “Elf! Are you lost?”

Tauriel composed herself, aiming for a humble yet dignified tone when she answered him. “I seek the king under the mountain.”

The dwarf frowned at her. For a few, he disappeared behind the parapet. Then, a second dwarf peered down. She recognized him; he had brought the athelas with which she expelled the poison from Kíli’s leg. Sounds of muffled discussion descended from far above her head. Mere seconds later, the doors before her opened up, revealing the dwarf from the balcony and two others. 

The tallest dwarf, with black hair encircling a bald crown, looked distrustful. The other grey-haired dwarf looked angry, while the dwarf from Laketown just appeared uncertain and a bit confused. He shuffled aside, and she carefully stepped forward, as uncertain as they were.

From a dark hallway that, to her, appeared infinite, a dwarf with thick, white hair appeared. Taken aback by what he saw, he stopped in his tracks, staring at the dwarves at the gate. Then, the dwarf with the hat spoke up. “This is the lass who saved Kíli.”

The tension eased, but only slightly. The white haired dwarf and the tall, bald dwarf exchanged a meaningful glance. The white dwarf approached further, while the other three dwarves trudged backward.

He appeared shorter than most dwarves she had met, partially because his mouth seemed buried in the hair on his face. His eyes stood kinder than those of most dwarves she had met. As he looked her over, she realized herself subject to him. She appeared as an enemy in a mending home after the war. Suddenly uncomfortable, she drew her cloak further around herself.

When he was done, he stuck out his hand. She gratefully accepted it, her slender fingers all but disappearing in his grip. “Welcome,” he spoke. “I cannot say I hadn’t expected you.”

Could that mean..? She did not dare ask. Within her chest, a bowstring strung taut, making it difficult to breathe.

“Unfortunately,” he continued. “You cannot meet with the king of Erebor.” The word seemed to echo deeply in the dark hall, as though the mountain responded to the calling of its name. 

“But,” He gave her a meaningful look, enough to release the arrow near her heart. “I do suspect you came with different intentions anyway.”

______________________

When morning broke, Kíli felt marginally better. His fever had broken, and his chest felt a bit less heavy than it had. As soon as he opened his eyes, Fíli, still next to him on the cot, squeezed his shoulder.

“Kíli,” he said, a strange twinkle in his blue eyes. “Get up. Go to the throne room.”

Rubbing his eyes, he propped himself up on his elbow. “What’s there?” he wondered aloud, confused. Knowing his brother, this could well be a dumb jest. On the other hand, there had been little room for jests in the past weeks. 

“You’ll want to go,” Fíli assured him. He squeezed once more.

Sleepily, Kíli rolled from the bed, testing the floor’s pressure against his feet. Continuously glancing back at his brother, suspicious, he got decent. Fíli was already half-asleep again when his brother stumbled from the room. 

Erebor was waking up, the remaining forces of Dáin’s army beginning to amble about the halls, busy to restore the castle to its old glory. Many of them had visited the Lonely Mountain in the olden days, when Thrór still besat the throne and Erebor was the most prosperous dwarven kingdom in Middle Earth. Driven by a vision of better days for all Khazâd, they worked tirelessly.

The dark-haired dwarf limped through the half-lit corridor, nodding to familiar and unfamiliar faces alike as he went by. Kíli was thinking about what could possibly be going on in the throne room, but nothing sprang to mind.

He was still half convinced he would not be finding anything where he went, though Fíli’s words did puzzle him. Just yesterday his brother had pleaded for him to rest; it would be odd if he sent him halfway across the mountain for naught. 

When the hall of the king opened up before him, he could see the back of the throne rise like a wall of grey. Dáin sat a large stone chair next to it, unwilling to be seen in a seat he did not belong in. The old Ironfoot was muttering some to an audience behind the throne, invisible to Kíli.

It cost Kíli quite the effort to climb the steps behind the throne, and he cursed his brother quietly. Then he rounded the throne and came to a halt.

Before Dáin, on the third stairstep, stood Balin. His hands were wrung before his belly, his eyes stood gravely. He talked to Dáin in quiet tone, but paused when he noticed Kíli. The young dwarf, however, did not look at Balin.

Behind him, appearing almost shorter than the elder dwarf, stood Tauriel.

Her skin was paler than he remembered, the bruises under her eyes tall shadows in the dim of the cavern. Her grey cloak swept the floor, and encapsuled her entirely. In spite of it, Kíli could see she did not stand as proud as she had before.

“Ah, Kíli,” acknowledged Balin, inclining his head by manner of greeting. Dáin turned to him as well.

Tauriel stared, her features visibly softening at the sight of him. Kíli could not share his attention with anyone else in the room. Swaying a little in relief, he reached out for the throne, steadying himself with his hand on the armrest.

“So,” Dáin spoke up. “The lass saved your bones.” 

It took Kíli a second before he could answer. “Twice,” he then managed, before a coughing fit took a hold of him, shaking his body as were it a rattle toy.

Balin strode forward, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Steady, lad,” he muttered. Then he went on to tell Dáin: “I think the lady Tauriel can profit off our hospitality for a bit. We clearly owe her a debt.”

Grudgingly, Dáin nodded. He then rose and descended the steps to his right, muttering something about elves and endless debt.

“Very well,” said Balin, looking over at Tauriel. “Let’s find you a place of rest. You must have had a long ride.”

They walked in silence, and slowly. Balin led, with Tauriel behind him. Kíli came last, still dragging his right leg. When he examined her from the back, he discovered a similar unevenness in her movement. The contents of his chest sat in his feet as he walked, the quiet pressing heavy on him.

She peered over her shoulder a number of times, quickly, discreetly. Each time she did, his chest tightened.

Balin came to a halt near a stone door with rough carvings in it. “I believe,” He opened the door. “this one is vacant.” He was right. The room was empty, save for a bed and a chair. 

“Now then, there’s that,” nodded the white-haired dwarf, folding his hands together. “I have business to attend to. Kíli. My lady.” He looked from one to the other, and then wandered off, deeper into the mountain.

Tauriel walked into the room, her steps uncertain. Kíli lingered on the doorstep. 

She then turned to face him, looking him over with wide eyes. “I was terrified I would find you dead,” she whispered.

Finally, he could not take any more. He followed her in, closed the door behind him, and killed the awful distance between them. She gladly received him against her, wrapping an arm about him tightly. 

From deep within his stomach, a sob erupted. Unwillingly, he began to cry into her chest, his eyes leaving stains on the fabric of her cloak. When he looked up, he realized she was doing much the same, half-blinded by her tears.

Slowly, he guided her backwards, towards the bed, where he sat her down. He showed her his hands, wordlessly asking to untie her riding cloak at the front. With a small nod, she gave him permission to do so. He kneeled before her.

First, he freed her of her bow and quiver, strapped to her back. Then he moved to the cloak, his stout fingers fumbling with the knot. It did come loose. It revealed her left arm in a neater sling than he had left her with. Her throat carried the last yellow traces of bruising. Her right thigh was bound beneath her trousers. His heart pounded, tales of the extraordinary healing of elves springing to mind. 

“Tauriel,” was all he managed to say, his throat closing. He coughed, leaning forward to conceal the pained look on his face as his body betrayed him yet again.

She did not miss it. Gently, she folded her hand over his jaw, tilting up so their eyes met once more. Kíli felt a shiver run through her body. “I was so scared—” She trailed off, a shaky breath running from her mouth.

“So was I,” Kíli admitted hoarsely, reaching up to cover her hand with his own. “but I am alright.” He closed his eyes, breathing in her scent, relishing in her presence. “I am alright, amrâlimê.” Before, he had used the word boldly, to offer her certainty. Now, it slipped out, reflecting purely the heat in his chest.

“Amrâlimê,” she repeated softly. The word rolled off her tongue as if it had been sitting there for centuries, just waiting to be uttered the way she did now. 

She needed no Sindarin or common translation to know its meaning. It was a word from deep underground, but it tasted of spring; of the wind ambling freely beneath the canopy; of wispy clouds in the night sky, dancing over and under the moon and stars. It smelled of wildflowers in a summer meadow, and it felt like home. She bathed in the echo.

“Tauriel, what happened?” Kíli asked, his eyes urgent. With his hand, he traced along the line of the bandage near her knee. 

She grabbed onto it. He looked up at her. “I came as soon as I could,” she promised, squeezing his hand gently. 

A strand of hair had come loose, and threatened to fall into her face. He used a calloused thumb to tenderly place it behind her ear. Worry marked his features, his lips pursed, his eyebrows drawn together. Favoring his right leg, Kíli rose to his feet. “You should be resting,” he decided.

In all honesty, Tauriel wanted nothing better than for him to stay, but she did not protest. She was tired, and as soon as her head sank into the pillow, she realized she would be gone long. 

“My chambers are down the corridor,” Kíli said. “The doors have carvings of ravens. Come find me when you wake, regardless of the hour.”

Tauriel nodded weakly, doubting whether she could even distinguish time in the dark mountain. Her eyes fluttered to a close, and she disappeared into the endless hole of the world of dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balin is a great wingman ok


	10. Chapter 10

After his early walk around the corridors, Kíli returned to his brother. For a while, he could do naught but sit on the edge of his cot quietly, staring at Fíli in disbelief. The he scolded him for not simply telling him what awaited him in the throne room. No real venom concealed itself within his words, though. When Fíli showed a very characteristic smile, Kíli could do little else but smile with him.

He suddenly had a feeling that things might be alright in a little while. Maybe not now, but soon.

All afternoon, they lay side by side, retelling the best tales Thorin had told them when they were but young dwarrows in the Blue Mountains. Once they had both laughed until they cried, and cried until they laughed, the tales ran out, and they stared at the ceiling in silence, watching the light change with the flames of the torches. 

“Kíli,” began Fíli, his tone suddenly weighty. “There is something we must discuss.”

Kíli turned his head in the pillow. He coughed, once, then lay still, waiting until Fíli spoke

“I will be crowned soon. It shall happen before spring arrives and Dáin takes his forces back to the Iron Hills,” his brother said, his voice steady but sorrowful. Neither of them had brought it up since the day in the tent, the subject laden with grief and responsibility neither had asked for. “Before the day comes, you should realize that you are next in line.”

The implication of Fíli’s death brought Kíli back to Ravenhill, a place he did not want to be. He shut his eyes for a few seconds, shutting the memories out. Despite it, he nodded, encouraging his brother to continue to talk.

Fíli beckoned for Kíli to come closer. Kíli slowly rose, to sit back down on the edge of his brother’s cot. 

“You know that,” Fíli resumed. “as long as I live, I will do everything in my power to grant you everything that brings you joy.” Setting his teeth, he shifted a little, propping his head up on his forearm. “But I cannot say that our people will easily accept a king who has pledged himself to an elf.”

Lost for words, Kíli opened his mouth, but remained silent. Nodding slowly, he began to digest his brother’s words. On one hand, Fíli was plotting awfully far ahead, further than Kíli did – as per usual. On the other hand was he probably right. If anything, Kíli was not planning to let Tauriel out of his reach soon. If it was up to him, never. That was saying something for a dwarf that never planned ahead.

Just then came a knock at the door. Kíli straightened up. He shared a glance with Fíli, who just nodded in understanding. Then he turned his eyes upon the door. “Come in!” he called. 

In she trickled, stepping sideways through a crack in the door, just big enough to fit her. Her lips parted slightly at the sight of the two brothers. “Do I interrupt?” she questioned, leaving one foot in the doorway. 

“Not at all.” It was Fíli who answered, sensing her discomfort from across the room. Her shoulders relaxed somewhat, as she entered the room wholly and closed the door behind. With a certain caution, she approached and seated herself on Kíli’s empty cot, as he was still sitting on Fíli’s.

“How are you feeling?” inquired Kíli, his eyebrows drawn together. 

“Alright,” answered Tauriel, in near automated manner. Her glance was on Fíli, who was struggling to push himself into upright position, and failing at hiding his struggle. 

Mostly annoyed at himself and his body’s refusal to cooperate, he uttered: “I always thought elves could magically heal themselves.” He said it more bitterly than intended.

Both Tauriel and Kíli were taken aback. Kíli eyed his brother with confusion and oncoming disapproval. Tauriel averted her gaze towards Kíli’s socks, suddenly very aware of herself. Her shoulder and leg still pounded with her every heartbeat. “It– needs to be called upon,” she admitted, choosing her words with care. “The– well, magic.” It was not the sort of words that her people used to describe such power, but it was not all untrue.

“Why haven’t you?” Kíli wanted to know, his hands clasped together between his knees. 

Tauriel swallowed. Under the gazes of the two dwarves, she felt see-through. “It requires certain energy,” she just said, looking neither brother in the eye.

Fíli nodded once. Kíli looked concerned.

Then, the door opened and revealed Bofur, carrying three bowls of stew. "Ah," he said with a lopsided grin. "Thought I might find ye here." He inclined his head to Tauriel, so that his hat sank sideways and nearly dipped over an eye.

After a light chat, he disappeared again, calling something about having to be quick before Bombur would empty the pot entirely. 

Only once Tauriel had a spoonful of the hearty substance in her mouth did she realize how famished she was. The stew tasted of the earth, with a thick flavor shapen by mushrooms and ground cinnamon. She savored every bite. 

As they ate, the conversation lightened, starting with the dwarves comparing the food with the stew of yesterday, which had been much the same. Every people of Middle Earth would experience the same in winter time, when food storage would run low, and so Tauriel easily tagged along in their conversation. 

By the time they finished, Kíli was telling a story of how he once got stuck in a bear den in a snowstorm. Near constantly, Fíli would interrupt him, sharing less glorious details of his escape. Their laughter rang out against the cavern walls, a sweet sound that Tauriel would forever engraft in her mind if she could. 

Eventually, Kíli’s laughter developed into a furious bout of coughing, leaving him doubled over on the side of Fíli’s bed, clawing for new breath in his lungs. Immediately, Tauriel stood, the room rocking her slightly when she did. She lay a hand on his shoulder, which he held onto gladly. 

Fíli and she locked eyes, and they were back in Laketown, the same brotherly worry painted on his features. His gaze stood gravely, where it had been joyous just seconds ago. 

Kíli finally stilled, panting with his head down. “Am fine,” he mumbled, rubbing his side, where the spike had struck him. Slowly, a dark stain had begun to form, marking the breaking of a newly formed scab. He hissed through his teeth when he rose, crossing over to his own bed. 

As Kíli lowered himself onto the cot, Fíli began to instruct her on where to find Óin, as he would have fresh bandages. Tauriel had seen him before, apparently, in the house in Laketown. Quick as she could, she went out to find the older dwarf.

When she returned with a bunch of clean rags, both Fíli and Kíli were lying flat. Fíli was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Kíli was pressing both his hands under his ribcage, tender though it was. When Tauriel kneeled by Kíli’s side, she could see his brother release, losing the battle against his heavy lids. 

Quietly, they cooperated to bind the gap in Kíli’s side again. The sense that she had seen the scene before was impossible to ignore. Of course they had: Tauriel’s green cape bore the ragged edges to prove it. 

When Kíli tied a knot, he sank back into the pillow, grimacing in pain. “Thank you,” he breathed.

Tauriel shook her head. She felt tired, but not as much as she had when she arrived. Languidly, she rose and began to kill the torchlight around. When she came back to Kíli, only one flame remained, and it hung over his head. 

“He cannot walk,” Kíli whispered, his eyes flitting between her and his sleeping brother. “He fell off a tower, and now he cannot walk.” His lip sat between his teeth. His eyes shone over in the dim firelight.

With new understanding, Tauriel looked over at the flaxen-haired brother, his face now relaxed as he drifted under the surface of the living world. 

“Even the elves could not help him,” continued Kíli, looking in the same direction as she did. “He hides it well, but he carries an anger I have not yet seen before.” Turning to face her, he added: “In fact, I’ve never seen him quite like this before. He has always taken care of me. It is strange,” He sighed, and muffled a cough in his elbow. “though no stranger than it is to lose half your body.”

As he looked back to Fíli, her heart broke for them. Unwillingly, she thought of Kíli’s face the night they had spoken through prison door. The promise he made to his mother came to mind, and the nonchalance with which he denied his recklessness. He was a different man now, seemingly years older, reckless not in the first fifty words she would use to describe him. 

“You have had him standing over you your whole life,” she whispered, not sure what she meant to say, trying to make sense of it as she spoke. “The world is suddenly on its head when your heroes need your shoulders for a change.”

Kíli simply nodded, worrying his lip. Then he reached up to her, gently caressing the line of her jaw. “I am so glad you’re here.” He said it barely louder than a breath. “Will you stay?”

Tauriel shivered under his touch, closing her eyes to savor the sweet sensation. Then they blinked open, towards Fíli. “I should be heading to my own quarters,” she replied softly, imagining to herself the response of the older brother, when he woke to find Tauriel still here. 

She felt an unspoken understanding was developing between them, as she had shown Fíli multiple times now that she cared for his younger brother. But she was scared to test it, as the understanding was yet young and fragile.

Unwavering, Kíli searched for her hand and wove his fingers through hers. “Tauriel,” he pleaded. “Just stay.”

The first ten words she would use to describe him included ‘genuine’, ‘warm’ and ‘beautiful’, and she was too weary to argue with him. The shadows engulfed them as she doused the last torch. Blindly, she crept in beside him, cautious to omit pressing into tender places in the dark. A shaky sigh came over her lips as she buried her head in his shoulder.

______________________

Shortly after morningfall, Fíli woke, roused by the door opening and closing after someone had lit the torches near the entrance to mark the break of dawn. During the night, he had pulled his furs off and they had fallen on the floor, out of reach.

He glanced over to Kíli’s bed, hoping to see his brother awake. Instead, he saw a tangle of long vermilion hair, shimmering in the dim firelight. His brother lay beside her, fast asleep, his arms wrapped around her slender but sinewy figure.

Fíli propped himself up on his elbows, looking over the pair. It would have looked quite comical to any outsider. She was much taller, and even with her knees bent and feet drawn up, she was not smaller than his brother was. According to all tales of old, none about this picture made sense. But it made sense to Kíli, and thus, Fíli had to make it make sense, too, even if he was so tempted to stick to everything he knew.

The brothers had talked about love before, hesitantly, awaiting one another’s carefully chosen wordings. Although they had seen attractive dwarven women, both were reluctant to talk about a lifelong pledge to any of them. It was only natural, Fíli had thought then. Their hearts had been tempestuous, restless. They had seen too little of the world to lock themselves into marriage in Ered Luin.

He had never seen his little brother so certain about love when he admitted how he felt about the elf. By the looks of it, she was as certain, having travelled all this way in the state she was in. Fíli looked on, and found words of prayer on his tongue. “Mahal, if this is what is true, may nothing tear it apart.” He said it on a breath, no louder than the falling of an autumn leaf.

Sighing, he lay back. He then remembered his blankets, shadows on the dark stone floor. Fíli peered over the edge, and reached. Carefully, he rolled further to the edge. His fingers only brushed the hairs of the fur. He grimaced as he moved aside, using both shoulders, pulling at his body, stretching…

When he heard the yelp, Kíli had risen from his cot before he realized. He staggered around his bed over to Fíli’s, who lay with his face contorted in pain, salty film sticking his lashes together.

“Fíli!” he urged, his voice unsteady. “What is it?”

He was completely dumbfounded when he saw that, through ground teeth and watery eyes, Fíli was smiling. “Kíli,” he panted hoarsely, reaching out to his left hip. “It hurts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the most amazing chapter, and still long. But oh well.
> 
> Thanks soooo much for all the love this story has gotten so far! I usually begin writing out of my need for better resolve and a pick-me-up for my English (as it's not my first language, do tell me if my sentences don't make any sense at times), so the enjoyment of other people is just a great side effect. Really motivates me even more :)
> 
> Thanks for reading and sticking around!
> 
> Freddie


	11. Chapter 11

“Easy,” Kíli muttered, heaving his brother's arm further over his shoulder. 

Near a fortnight had passed since Fíli had first felt a cramping in his hip. It had grown stronger, waking him at night, leaving him to cry out in agony. At first, it had been a relief of sorts. Now, it was more and more discouraging, as the activity in his muscles didn’t seem to do much else than hurt him.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. 

Kíli supported half of his brother’s weight on his shoulder. At Fíli’s other side pressed Bifur, looking to the floor with immense focus. Kíli was looking there too, watching the muscles on the outside of Fíli’s left thigh swell as they let gravity do its work. But his calves and feet dragged; his right leg showed no signs of cooperation. 

As for Kíli himself: he was improving. His coughing ceased little by little, and his chest stopped feeling like a cage of razors when he breathed. He was not exactly fit to be carrying heavy objects, but no one dared suggest he sit back while others stepped in to help his brother. Fíli had cared for him forever; Kíli refused to rest when he could be returning the favor.

The trio turned around slowly, back to Fíli’s chair. Kíli looked sideways. On the seat of his chair lay Tauriel’s half-torn green mantle. She had been trying to mend it, and left it there. He took mental note to bring it to her.

Within the past days, Tauriel had bloomed, like a spring-sprouting flower after last snow disappears. He had watched her grow in strength quickly. While he frequently had difficulty resting his weight on his right leg, she walked steadily, the skin on her thigh well-nigh restored. 

After the first night they spent on Kíli’s cot, they felt it had been a mistake of the weary-headed. Neither had dared to suggest it again. Fíli still spent most his days in the same room, and it felt quite strange to do anything of the sorts. She slept in her own quarters, further away than Kíli liked. But he remembered looking up at her the first time, how his spirit ran away with him. In that moment, he could never have thought she would ever be so close.

The issue was light. Kíli was painfully aware that Tauriel had spent her long life under rustling canopy, cloud cover and star-bedazzled sky. The dark in Mirkwood was of different kind than the blackness deep within the mountain, and not seldom did she express her longing to be outside. 

When she did, she silenced herself, not eager to emphasize the fact that she did not belong within the mountain. But in Kíli's mind, images of her appeared each time: under brilliant sun, in grassland and on rocky riverbend. They just made _sense_.

They lowered Fíli into his chair. The blond dwarf was panting, his face tense with some hidden ache. The disappointment, however, was written in his eyes clear as day. Frowning, he examined his thighs with his hands, stopping to massage the left a little. He thanked Bifur, who muttered something like: “Anytime at all,” and then left the brothers.

“It gets better,” assured Kíli, clapping his brother’s shoulder tiredly. 

Fíli looked up. In his eyes lingered the ugly shape of fear and anger. “Doesn’t feel like it,” he grumbled, giving his leg a bitter squeeze. At once, his muscles responded by working against one another. Groaning, he threw his head back, his mouth in a grimace, as Kíli stretched the leg in various directions until the convulsing eased.

As this conversation was not new to the two, Kíli was finding it hard to say anything encouraging. He, too, was scared for his brother, and fearful to give him false hope when his body seemed to fail him so. However desperate he was to push it away, the thought of his older brother in pain like this forever, remained. 

Drawing his eyebrows together, he sighed softly. “Honest,” he then uttered. “There must be an end to this, right?” He threw his hands up beside him. “Something works again, there must be a reason. We keep trying.”

“We don’t know if there is a reason, Kíli, it could just be dumb misfortune,” responded Fíli, impatiently. He pattered with his thumbs on the armrests. 

“But it happens,” Kíli argued. “Tauriel has seen it before.”

“Tauriel is an _elf_ , Kíli,” Fíli snapped. “She healed a flesh wound as big as your hand within a week and she’ll live beyond two thousand years; of course she has seen it happen. Come back when you can give me elven healing.”

Kíli fell quiet, hearing sense in, but simultaneously annoyed and a little hurt by his brother’s words. He patted Fíli on the shoulder once more. “We will try again tomorrow,” he muttered, before he left the room, taking Tauriel’s green cloak with him.

As he rose his knuckles to rap on the stone of her door, it opened, revealing Tauriel in the grey cloak she had arrived in. Her mouth opened slightly at the sight of him, the question about his reason to visit unspoken on her lips. Silently, he stuck out the green mantle. “You’ve forgotten this.”

Recognizing the fabric, she took it from him. “Thank you,” she said, a smile sliding over her face like sun from behind a cloud. “I was about to take a walk into Dale. Will you join me?” 

“Please,” he answered, hurrying back to his quarters as fast as his faulty leg would allow. Fíli ignored him. Kíli draped himself in heavy cloak and left.

Through the week, the dwarves in the mountain had stopped looking up when he and Tauriel walked side by side, yet they grumbled still as they passed. The words were Khuzdul and usually not so kind, but when Kíli had tried to defend his love, Tauriel had silenced him swiftly with a cautious glance. Wisely so: elf nor dwarf would profit from more commotion about them than already was.

The way to the gate was silent, yet not dressed in discomfort. He could sense her fervor to be under daylight, but she strolled beside him calmly, not exceeding her pace beyond his limits. Kíli was grateful for it. 

The great gate opened wide before them when Kíli gave the word. With it, their view filled with a brilliant, blinding white. For a while they rested in place, until their dark-adjusted eyes could tolerate the light of the world.

In front of the mountain, the snowy ground appeared as if someone had forgotten to color it in. It stretched endlessly to the west, over the hills and surely beyond. Before them lay Dale, shrouded in similar blanket of white. The day was bright, the sky overhead cerulean with little to no clouds to break it up. Although the sun was out, the air was bitter cold, and Kíli felt it creep into his cheeks at once.

Now they rounded a boulder near the gate, and then Tauriel grabbed his hand. “Come,” said she, her eyes shimmering with excitement and some mischief. “I must show you something.” This was not the first time she had come out here. She definitely did not come here to walk into Dale. 

They took a trail travelling southward along the mountainside. The climb was not long, yet heavy on Kíli still, whose lungs protested the frigid air. More than once did he stop to catch his breath, after what point he had to convince Tauriel that he would go on fine. 

The path broadened into a clearing, where it looked as though an immense creature had taken a large bite from the stone. It left a small square with relatively level floor. Some very robust weeds were peeking through the snow on the ground, but it was otherwise white. 

Tauriel undid her cloak and unveiled her bow and quiver. She set them down and fastened the mantle once again. “It’s a new bow, and she’s stiff,” she explained, stringing the weapon nimbly. “As is my shoulder,” she then added, carefully raising the bow with her left hand, then lowering it again. “I’ve been coming here to loosen both.”

Focus setting on her face like a blooded sun, she picked an arrow. Carefully, she drew it back and forth on the string, testing her strength. Then, within the blink of an eye, she picked a target in the snowy rocks below, and released. 

The arrow came to a halt on a boulder, springing off happily. Tauriel stood unblinking, and sighed. “That’s not everything,” she remarked. Then she turned to Kíli, holding out the bow. “Would you like to have a go?”

He very much did. It had been weeks, maybe months, since he last held a proper bow in his hands. And not only was this a functional bow, it was also elven-made. Much could be said about elves, but they were certainly skilled in the making of good weaponry. Not ever before had Kíli handled such an incredibly calibrated instrument.

He took the bow in his left hand, and plucked a new arrow from the quiver. With steady motions, he rested the feathered end on the string, drew taut, aimed and released. 

The arrow narrowly struck target, diving into the crack between the rocks. There it stuck upright, trilling with the force of the blow.

“You’re a good shot,” Tauriel said, quite perplexed.

He looked over his shoulder, grinning smartly at her. In a flash, the young dwarf she had met in the Greenwood returned, recklessness suddenly enameled on his features. “You sound surprised,” he stated, raising a dark eyebrow.

“Well, I—“ Tauriel _was_ a little surprised. “I had expected you to have some skill in archery, but did not think you might beat my aim.”

“Beat your aim!” 

Turning to face her complete, Kíli laughed. It was a hearty laugh, and although she could slap herself for voicing her exact thoughts aloud, she smiled. The sound bounced off the mountain and into the great wide open beyond, where the sun was on the return in the sky. 

His laugh was made of newly sprouted seeds; of spring-born deer, not yet familiar with the onset of winter’s cold. Although he had faced war and grief, bearing scars to prove it, he was not void of hope and love. Her heart burned brighter than ever. 

“Must be luck,” he finally said, handing the bow back. “You go again.”

So she did. Now, the tension of the string felt a little more familiar under her fingers. Her shoulder resisted in pressure as she drew back, but she aimed down, and needed little power. The arrow dipped into the same crack, quivering beside Kíli’s.

“There,” she nodded. “Now do tell me, was it a lucky shot?”

He smiled, shook his head. “The bow is not the usual dwarvish weapon. But I’ve always taken to it. My eyes are sharp enough and my hands precise, more so than they appear.” He showed his hands, with his short, thick fingers. “And well, it is ever efficient to have at least one bowman in your party.”

“You are the one bowman? Of the thirteen?” She recalled searching the dwarves for weapons in the forest, so very long ago. She had recovered many swords, knives, daggers and axes – most of which came directly from Fíli – but not a single arrow. 

Kíli shrugged. He took the bow from her again, testing the string absent-mindedly. “Most of them have the skill, but do not have the patience for distant shooting. They want to go up close at once.” He snorted. “Fíli always hated to train at archery.” Suddenly, a cloud of gloom descended on him, his face growing solemn at the thought of his brother.

Tauriel sensed as much. “How is he?” she asked quietly, sitting down on a large rock at the edge of the clearing.

“In pain,” replied Kíli lowly. “He is angry with himself. He cannot will his body into doing what he wants.”

“It will take time,” she said. “If he should walk on his own again, it will not be next week.”

Defeated, Kíli shook his raven hair. “I have told him as much,” he spoke hoarsely. “but I only know because you know. And you are no dwarf.” Between his fingers, he spun an arrow round. “Your people have a magic we could not possibly access. We have both witnessed it.” He patted the top of his thigh. “Thus, he cannot take your word for it. He may lose hope yet.”

“And you?” she asked. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” He paused, fidgeting with the arrow’s feathers. Then he looked up, to the horizon. “I just don’t like to watch him suffer. And, I am afraid he’s right. We are no elves.”

She swallowed hard, and watched in silence as he loaded the bow, and gave a firm tug on the string. The arrow launched like firework, straight ahead into the west. It was not hindered by wind or branch, and it sailed forward until they lost sight of it against the bright orange sun. 

He walked back and sank against the stone at her side.

Finally, she opened her mouth. “You mustn’t give up hope, amrâlimê,” she whispered. He looked up, and a hint of a smile appeared at his lips, surprise at the use of his word for her. “Your hope will give him strength. It is the only way.”

From out of his sleeve, his hand slipped into hers. He entangled their fingers, passing a soft squeeze. “I know,” he murmured. “and I do not doubt you. I just wish it would be easier.”

Together, they sat and listened to the faint voices crawling up around the mountainside, and the call of tough birds, closer to the peak than they were, and out of their sight. It would not be long before the cold would creep in beneath their clothes, turning their skin to ice, but they did not take much notice.

“Since I was but little, the world would try and convince me of the heartlessness of elves,” Kíli finally spoke, looking down at their joined hands. “My uncle was ever distrustful of your kind, spitting unkind words on your names. And we believed him, though we had no proof at all.”

He shook his knees a little, bumping into her thighs gently. “Fíli and I, we were too young to fully meet the hunger and pain that our people suffered at heart. They told, and we listened, putting little question marks. Now still, I feel most of the prejudice that was taught to me. But, you,” He gripped her hand a little more firmly. “I would follow blindly into any fray.”

Tauriel pressed back into his palm, looking down on his face. Her people was much the same. They forced her from her home for it. The words blew into her chest, making it swell like the river when it rains. “I could not distrust you if I tried,” she breathed.

As he peered up at her, his eyes angled so that they seemed to become see-through in the light of the orange sun, going from uniform dark brown to a cinnamon forest, almost golden in the center. Kíli was glowing, the brightest star she had seen, pouring fresh dreams into her soul. 

Once before, she had leaned forward to kiss him. This time, nothing interrupted them, and her lips landed right where they were supposed to.


	12. Chapter 12

He felt how Kíli released him slowly. He stood. In his throat began a laugh. A pure and powerful laugh, that he could not have suppressed if he tried. It shook him all over, the joy overtaking his body entirely. Shortly, Kíli joined in, to create a sound truer than that of the most beautiful song. 

Fíli had his hands on the balustrade, leaning heavily as he caught his breath. He smiled broadly at his brother, who had relief painted on his every feature. His brother’s dark eyes went from head to toe and back. “You’ve done it,” he whispered.

“Are you crying, brother?” Fíli teased, setting down his elbows on the rail. 

“I might,” grinned Kíli in return, leaning sideways and peering down into the mine below, dimly lit by scattered torches. Then his eyes came back up, and he clapped Fíli on the shoulder, squeezing. “I am proud of you.”

Fíli shook his head. “I would not have managed without you,” he responded. He grimaced a bit as he shifted more of his weight forward. “Now, we ought to make back, before I dip right over the edge.” With a huff, he nodded into the black depth.

Kíli snorted, and wrapped an arm around his brother, carefully accepting his weight for the journey back to their quarters.

Two and a half months had come and gone. Outside the mountain, the worst of the frost had now set in, turning the world overground into a dome of pure white, with limitless cloud and unstoppable snow and hail. The dwarves and the people of Dale had suffered much, and were not significantly well-stocked for winter. They were on ration, a word most despised among dwarves. 

Nevertheless, Kíli had warmth all about him. His brother was improving significantly. Their daily walks grew longer, reaching far down the hall from where they slept, though his motions were stiff, and his right foot mostly dragged along. Kíli gladly supported his brother, although his chest was still sore at times. Otherwise, he was alright, the wounds in his leg and side well-nigh cleared. 

When he felt bold, he would stalk towards Tauriel’s quarters at night. She had been moved to a new place, near the stairs to the battlements and the gate. She loved to climb into the open air, meditating until her skin turned white in the cold. 

The dwarves that roamed Erebor had given her side-eye since she arrived, but eventually started to melt a bit. This began especially when she began to bring in game from the woods nearby. Elves are incredibly light on their feet, and can hunt animals that hear dwarves coming from miles. 

Fíli, who more and more discussed the ways of the mountain with Dáin, got quickly used to Tauriel and had seen an opportunity to mend a legendary fracture. Most old dwarves were still reluctant, but younger dwarrows had realized her use and were willing to bring her on hunting parties. Before long, she had won just a little tolerance, which was more than she ever had hoped for.

It was one day Kíli joined her on a trip to the woods, ploughing through heaps of snow after three more dwarves. They were pulling ahead. Kíli and Tauriel let them, knowing more dwarves meant more racket, and smaller chance at fruitful hunt.

Once they left Dale well behind, and the others disappeared between trees, Kíli grabbed her hand and took her forward, to the tree line and behind a thick sycamore. The tree was bare of leaves, but laden with sleeves upon sleeves of snow. He looked around quickly, checking for spying eyes, and then he guided down her face and kissed her.

His hands cupped her cheeks, wet with melted snow and icy to the touch. Yet her breath was warm, and he felt his own nose thaw against her face. It lasted not long enough, he thought, because she slowly released him, and straightened up, out of his reach. “We will not be catching much, if we stand here much longer and freeze,” she chuckled softly.

Kíli pouted up at her, purposefully making himself look sad. Unmoved by his efforts, she laughed and turned away. Then she beckoned him with a nod of her head. “Let’s go in that direction,” she whispered.

She lead, the snow sighing softly beneath her feet as she passed. It was a different sound than the crunch that Kíli caused, and no matter how he tried, he could not match her stealth. When they had skulked forward for some time, her ears pricked up and she stopped. They crouched low. 

The hare had seen them coming, but they were sitting still at a distance. According to the animal, they were far out of reach. Motionless they remained, resting in their last footprint, for several long minutes. Then the hare scuffled into a bush, choosing safety over risk. 

Kíli was preparing to rise, his thigh growing sore in the bitter frost, but Tauriel stopped him with a flick of her hand. 

The bush was not thick, and neither was it very extensive. The hare, thinking itself guarded, sat in its green arms, alert yet still snuffling about. Like them, the animal could not waste time in his search for food.

In slow, steady movement, Kíli drew an arrow from her quiver. He passed it down to her, and she lay it on the string, keeping the weapon low and out of the hare’s sharp sight. The string tightened under her fingers. She aimed and released before his eyes had blinked. The hare sat straight, tensed, but too late. It was already dead.

They gathered it and returned to the edge of the trees. There they stood, waiting for the rest of the party.

“We passed through Rivendell on the way to the mountain,” began Kíli, a lopsided grin on his face. “There was not any meat at dinner, I did not think elves ate any.”

“Woodelves have been a separate people from the elves of Imladris for many a century,” Tauriel lifted her eyebrows. “And, even elves make do with what they find, especially in the less prosperous seasons,” she replied. “But it is true, we prefer to live in peaceful symbiosis with the creatures of the forest, if we can.”

Laughing, Kíli shook his head. “I could not,” he admitted. “Those long-ears procreate too fast for their own good, anyway. Who will keep a hand on it, if not us?”

“Nature has a way of restoring balance,” reasoned Tauriel. “Such problems fix themselves.”

“Well, then the loss of the hunted will balance out as well.”

Tauriel sighed. “Yes, given time. And rest.” She gave him a meaningful look. “We can afford to give her the rest in summer, why not do just that?”

Clearly, he was out of remarks, the ponder visible on his face. Then he said: “We shall talk of this again when we may wed.”

Tauriel stood perplexed, her tong breaking off and falling down her throat. Up her heart jumped, setting off a tingling in her extremities. She could see about him that he had meant to catch her by surprise, as he was grinning widely and lovingly at her response. 

Just then, the other dwarves came trudging down the snowy hill, carrying two pheasants between them.

“Kíli,” one greeted. Then: “Elf.”

“Come on,” another grumbled, through bushy red beard. “Let us return to the fire, ere our noses crack right off.”

Back they went. Kíli and Tauriel walked at the rear once more, the hare dangling over Kíli’s arm. When he was certain no one looked, he would brush his hand against hers. 

When they touched, the spark under their skins spoke in a voice of faith and desire, whispering words neither of them had dared to lay bare just yet.


	13. Chapter 13

March crept in, and with it dripped down the snow, the river swelling with its melting. From the stream sprang new life, populations of strange fish rearing their heads with the fading of the stench of sulfur. 

The promise of spring and the dragon’s death brought animals back to the mountain, Tauriel had noticed. She had begun to make a record of nature’s growth in the world overground of Erebor, neatly drawing up pictures of strange creatures in the cracks of the mountain, the forest and hills nearby, the lake, the river, and the city of Dale.

Much to the dwarves’ pleasure, she could report that young ravens had hatched over the side of the mountain. The ravens were of ancient dwarven-bred kind, used in communication between their peoples since ever dwarves had settled in various mountain ranges to mine. Balin especially had been delighted to hear of it. He had thanked her kindly for the knowledge, growing more fond of the elf by day.

Fíli set foot outside on a windy day nearing the end of the month, the sun watery overhead. Although he was a dwarf – undoubtedly so – he had similar nose for adventure as his younger brother, and much loved the world overground as well. He breathed in the blowing air, admitting to himself that he had much missed the taste of it. He thanked Glóin for his strength, and staggered towards the wall to lean against it.

On the parapet wall sat Tauriel, cross-legged, her eyes fixed on the town some way ahead. When Fíli followed her glance, he could make out a Dalesman in a struggle with a goat. He snorted to himself as the animal jumped the man and successfully fled, up until she got stuck in a wooden fence and the man managed to regain control over her.

Glóin returned with a straight stump of a log that Fíli could sit on. He did so gratefully, although his view of the valley was now blocked entirely.

Smiling, Tauriel looked down. “Fíli,” she acknowledged, inclining her head. “How good it is to see you on the wall.”

“Tauriel,” he nodded back, his eyes blinking only halfway against the bright of the sky. “I had much expected to meet you here.”

She looked around, to a world Fíli could not see. She saw hills around, greening from their roots up. The river flickered in the sunlight. “Well,” she started. “I am not made to breathe the air of the underground.”

“I know,” he said, leaning back against the stone and looking straight up, to the blue and white against the heavens. “Kíli has told me as much.”

She was gazing at him, but he did not return the look, and sat in silence for some time. No words needed to be said for both of them to know what that meant.

“Tauriel,” he finally spoke, sitting up straight as he could. “You are in exile, are you not?”

He watched solemnity replace serenity on her features. She nodded. They had talked of it before, vaguely. The words were more tangible now, and they cut her hard.

“You know I must be crowned soon,” the blond dwarf went on, his pale blue eyes not leaving her. “Sometime after, you will leave. You both will.” Sorrow was easily detected in his words. “I do not blame you for it. This is no place for an elf.” 

He did not mean ill by it, he was simply stating truth.

Nodding pensively, she averted her eyes. In the west, she saw the horizon meet the fields, where far beyond lay the Iron Hills. To the east lay Mirkwood, its dim lands beginning in gentle shades of green. She wondered where she would go, and if she dare take Kíli with her. Fíli expected his brother to leave, but Tauriel felt no distance could be allowed between the brothers.

“It would please me,” he continued in low voice. “if you were to reside on the edge of the forest, nearing the Grey Mountains. It was a place held by Durin’s folk, once. It may be again, now that most enemies in the mountains have perished.”

Fíli had been inside for a long time, but his mind had not sat quiet. With guidance of Dáin, the lord of the Iron Hills, he had plotted to go north and east from Erebor, hoping to stretch out dwarven lands where now lay enemy territory. The shadows of the Grey Mountains were weakened greatly. The time to move in was now.

Her lips parted as she thought. The reasoning was not hard to follow, and yet– “And Kíli..?" she began, her eyes flitting over the ramparts, but finding it empty save for them.

“Kíli is my brother. I love him dearly and I would have preferred it otherwise. I would have him beside my throne until I die.” He spoke gravely, and certain as rock. “But he is also my heir. And there is much to be done, much that cannot be settled if all our people linger here.”

Tauriel looked to the far east, and followed the line of thick green until the mountain cut off the image on the right. She hummed in understanding.

“The breaking point will be a day’s ride, and not a three day’s march,” Fíli said. “It is as close as I may keep my brother, I think.”

His words were well placed, but made little sense. He could easily send another warrior he trusted to do the work. But Tauriel took one more look at the golden-haired dwarf, and realized this was not purely a strategic decision. 

Kíli was the heir to the king of Erebor. Kíli was also intent to wed an elf. These were no things to go hand in hand, and Fíli was putting them in a position of comfort. The fearsome realization dawned she would take Kíli away from his brother.

“You would let him go,” she stated beneath her breath, her eyes meaning as she caught his gaze.

For a moment, he stared back, his lips parted in thought. Then he closed his mouth, and just nodded in response.

______________________

The coronation came sooner than expected. Only days after the official marking of spring did it begin. A feast sprouted like the many flowers in the fields about: sudden, colourful and fragrant. The great chamber of Thrór burst with firelight and bustle of dwarves going about, anxious for the festivities to begin.

The long-lost dwarven gold had finally started to flow in favor of Erebor. Now that spring had come, and the first trade with the south awoke, no coin had been spared upon the feast. Barrels upon barrels of wine and ale rolled in, and were piled so high that Kíli could only laugh at the thought of getting them down again. On the airflow in the mountain drifted the mouth-watering scent of roast meat and spices from here and yonder. 

In the weeks before, the ovens had been fuming. They were worked by dwarves seasoned in the craft of molding precious metals. Whatever they were doing down there was much unknown to Kíli. Balin was mostly overseeing the work, and he sent both Durin brothers away whenever they poked.

The dwarves of the Iron Hills and the remainder of the company of Thorin Oakenshield were gathered in the great hall, sat on benches, conversing merrily among one another. They would peer into their jugs and, quite unsuccessfully, try to refrain from taking a sip before a toast was brought out.

At the rear of the hall stood an empty throne. Fíli had planned to come early and sit before the hall was full, but Kíli had steered him off that idea. The hall would not ever be empty of eyes on a day as this, and Fíli would have waited there from deep morning until late afternoon. They now played cards in a small room opening into the hall, while they waited for Dáin to give a sign they were expected.

As Fíli weighed on his next move, Kíli glanced through the open door at the masses. His eyes searched for a blink of a tall green and red figure in the pack of dwarves. Useless, he knew. Tauriel was not likely to be noticed on a day like this. She was present, but not eager to draw any attention to herself. Kíli would have to look a little harder than a glance.

When he turned back, he just caught his brother switching out a bad card. “Hey!” he called, indignantly.

“You’re somewhere else, brother.” Fíli shrugged. “Got to pay attention.”

The raven-haired dwarf gave his brother a meaning look, and then went on to plot a play of his own.

For some time, only the chatter from the hall sounded between them, until Fíli asked: “Did you think over my suggestion?”

Slowly, Kíli nodded. He looked up to see expectant blue eyes across the table. “It is a fine idea, a lookout,” he admitted, but the words rang hollow, springing against brick and falling flat. As Tauriel had, Kíli had seen both uses of moving.

Fíli sensed his brother’s discomfort, and shook his head. “You think I am sending you away,” he stated. Impatient for a response, he went on: “You think I disapprove. I do not. But Kíli, you know the way of things. You know I am trying to find a middle road.”

In Kíli’s eyes flashed some defiance. “Oh, bugger with the roads.” He slapped two throwaway cards on the table, reluctantly handing his brother the win. “Let the roads collide. I love her, Fíli. I love her and I think every dwarf under your rule should get the chance to love when it comes, in whatever form.”

The blond brother drew his eyebrows together. “Words are easily said, but not easily spread, and, even more so, harder to feel. Will you convince all my people to follow me after I declare such things?” He overruled Kíli with his last play, and gathered the cards in the center of the table. “We won over Erebor with blood, more than we wished to spare. I hold you dear, you know I do, but I should not like to risk ending up a king of nothing.”

Kíli glared, but remained silent. His brother was right, and his solution was more than gracious. Suddenly, he was glad Fíli inherited the throne. Kíli could not possibly have solved this problem if he were to be crowned king. “Why, alright,” he muttered, his eyes set on Fíli’s hands that busied themselves with stacking the cards. “I’ll be your lookout to the west.”

His older brother smiled, and smacked the pile on the table. “It could be more than a lookout,” he prompted, almost wistfully. “Could be a town. Or a city. Or a stronghold.” For a moment, he appeared lost in thought, his mind going over imaginary maps to envision a dwarven stronghold at the border of Mirkwood on one side, and the Grey Mountains on the other.

Kíli laughed, and got up to muss up his brother’s flaxen hair. Luckily for Fíli, Dáin appeared on the doorstep just then. “It is time,” he said.


	14. Chapter 14

The coronation was beautiful, but also a bit boring, especially when the part of endless contract-reading and -signing began. Kíli must have taken a quick nap, but was roused in time for the hailing of the new king and the laying down of weapons in the hall to seal the passing of the crown. Fíli looked tired, yet strong and even wise when the newly forged crown was set on his already golden head. 

After all was said and done, the feast began. It was most spectacular, with a plentiful supper and drink for the taking. There was many a tale and song, most of them only half finished before another took up. 

As the dusk darkened outside, the mirth grew, and the ale flowed graciously. Dwarves played instruments and filled the entire hall with endless harmonies. Fíli was given a hand-harp and played from his chair, laughing, as Kíli played a fiddle and danced best he could. The party would run into the black of night and beyond, but his energy seemed boundless then, well-fueled by bitter ale.

Once the hour reached near dawn, the party was still going, turning into an enormous drinking contest. Formally, Kíli was never one to pass up a good challenge. But he felt himself grow weary, and had stopped drinking a little ways into the evening. 

Most dwarves had let themselves run into deep intoxication. A feast was a feast, after all, and the occasion certainly called for it. For the company, however, this was a strange night of the breaking of a new dawn, with grief behind and much labor ahead of them. 

The crown sat on Fíli’s head heavy, Kíli knew, as they had always envisioned Thorin wearing it. The brothers had ever admired their uncle, wishing to be much like him someday. Now, they were a little too much alike, with Fíli king and Kíli next in line, the wishes of old sour in their stomachs. What they would give to be far from the situation.

He had helped Fíli to bed, in the same room they had played cards earlier. He was likely asleep now, and Kíli liked the idea of doing the same. But he lingered in the hall. Unwillingly, his eyes moved to the pathway that lead to Tauriel’s room. 

Before he really thought about it, the decision was made, and he was slowly ambling forward to the room near the battlements. As he drew nearer, the air grew colder, the outside making itself known by reaching in with long fingers of chill. He stopped on her doorstep, and knocked. 

No reply.

“Tauriel..?” he went, his face close to the door to listen. 

Nothing.

Then, his eyes languidly traveled up the steps. Through the columns and over the short wall peeked the soft start of dawn, beckoning him to come near and breathe the fresh air of morning. As though called by an omniscient voice, he walked to the steps and began to climb. 

It seemed an endless ascent, but he reached the final stairstep. There, he saw her. 

Like he had found her many times before, she was sitting on the wall straight-backed, staring out over the lands. In the light that preceded the sunrise, she was the most ethereal being. A daughter of stars, wind, water and forest. She seemed to glow brighter than all fires in the great hall combined. 

Tauriel had long heard him coming. She sat smiling as she recognized his breathing on the stairs. He stepped out from the shadows, his hair blowing into his face with the wind. When she looked upon his form, she recalled the very minute she first saw him, earth and leaves caught in his hair and clothes as she denied him a dagger in the battle against the spiders. He looked tired, but the more beautiful as his mouth pulled into a lopsided grin.

“Amrâlimê.” The word drifted on the wind and seemed closely whispered into her ear.

When she smiled, the sun rose twice, before it had grown over the hills in the east. Slowly, Kíli approached, sticking his nose through the parapet to catch the blowing air beyond. He folded his arms on the stone and followed her eyes outward, from here to the farthest they could see. “I’ve missed you today,” he uttered, looking up with inquisitive eyes. 

Once more Tauriel smiled. She shook her head, the vermilion vines waving past the stone as she did. “Oh, I was there. But, this was no day for me,” said she, turning to face him. “It was for Fíli, and for you. I do hope you enjoyed yourself.”

Thoughtfully, Kíli glanced down beyond the wall. Then he set his hands down and worked up until he sat snugly in an embrasure next to where Tauriel sat. “I did,” he nodded, grinning at her doubtful look. “But not too much.”

She hummed in agreement, and reached over to lay out her hand. Gratefully, he accepted it, entangling their fingers in the middle. “How long have you been sitting here?” Kíli wondered, the chill of the stone immediately felt in his legs.

“Some time,” she admitted, looking to the pale yellow that hovered where the sun should rise. 

The dwarf drew his dark brows together. “You must be cold,” he stated. Before she could respond, he had shrugged off his coat and wrapped it over her shoulders. 

Tauriel had opened her mouth in protest, but shut it quickly as her muscles relaxed in the warmth of the garment. It was Kíli’s turn to tense up under the cool of morning, but he showed none of it. 

They sat and pressed into one another’s silence. The first sliver of sun strode over the treetops, setting the lands in a blaze of warm yellow. It was the hearty promise of a fine spring day, giving way to all things that grow. 

Finally, Kíli’s voice cleft through the quiet. “Tauriel,” he began, her name delicate on his tongue. “Do you ever feel regret for your departure of the Greenwood?”

Her smile was rueful, wry. “I was not given much choice.”

He shook his raven hair, squinting into the sun. “Before that,” He squeezed her hand twice, gently. “when you left to find us.”

“You. I left to find you,” she corrected. “How could I regret that?”

“Tauriel,” he uttered, reaching for her other hand, forcing her to turn to him entirely. In the light of the half-risen sun, her hair glittered with a million shades of fire. “Is there nothing you leave behind for me? What of your family?”

She swallowed back something difficult, he saw, as her gaze flitted away from his uneasily. For a moment, silence ruled, until it became so dense that the air seemed to crystallize between them. Then she answered: “My family perished long ago, Kíli. The Greenwood is just a place now, though it holds my every memory.” Wistfully, she looked into the sunrise, where the thick green of the forest loomed in the distance. “I have Legolas, my dear friend. You’ve met him. But he’s not there now. Where he is, I do not know.”

Kíli did meet the blond elf, of course. Like Tauriel at the time, he had not been very fond of the dwarves bewandering their woods, and had played a significant part in their imprisonment. This dwarf did not feel a grudge, though, and how could he? The other prison guard was sitting next to him, snuggled in his coat, both her hands in his. “Tell me about him,” he urged.

“Legolas is the son of Thranduil, the elven king of Eryn Galen. You might know that,” she began, carefully thinking on her words. “I came under Thranduil’s care as a young elf. Legolas is some way older, and he took it upon himself to guide me. In many ways, he is as a brother to me.” Tauriel paused, releasing one of his hands and shifting on the hard cobble.

“Like Fíli and I?” asked Kíli softly.

On that, Tauriel weighed for a minute, looking at him with thought written on her face. “Well, not quite. And in some ways, yes,” she then said, still sounding unsure of that answer. More explanation could she not have given.

They quieted again, losing thought in the clean scent of damp earth and the warning of rain. It was a smell that forebode spring, more than anything. The sun rose further, and ran into the trap of clouds above. Still there they sat, their hands intertwined as the early dawn greyed over.

Kíli finally tore through the thick of the silence. “Fíli and I have never been apart long,” he admitted, catching Tauriel’s eyes. 

Suddenly, she understood better what he asked at. She squeezed his hand, encouraging him to continue.

So he did. “We have been side by side since ever I can remember. There have been instances where we went on separate scouting missions or hunting parties. Fíli was also favored by Thorin, being the heir and all.” At this, he averted his gaze to Dale and beyond, placing his look of grief in the arms of the valley. “But they could not separate us. He was always there. When the company was about to be on the Mountain’s doorstep, Fíli _chose_ to remain by my side.”

“You were dying,” she argued.

“Not when he made that choice. Yet he made it anyway. In a heartbeat.” Kíli shook his head. Certain trouble fogged over his eyes. She could taste his doubt from a distance. “And so would I. I would do the same thing for him. It is what we have always done for one another.” 

His sudden glance pinned her heart to the back of her throat. “Somehow, it is different now. The strangest ghost awoke in me, and since first I met you, I have wanted to run away with you. To go distances unexplored, to places where you and I mean only something to you and I. I wish to lay you in grass, beneath the stars you love so well, and kiss you brightly until the earth takes us back to our beginnings. Only that is upon my heart now.”

“But it is a choice I must make. I cannot love you in the ways I want to _and_ stay here with my people. I fear it is a choice in which I will forsake my brother, and my loyalty to him. Even if he is making the offer of it, it feels like betrayal, ranker than bile. How could the world make me choose?”

It had begun to rain. Pinprickle droplets gathered on their sleeves and then proceeded to roll off, or drain into the fabric. Before long, a sheen of damp glistened on their skins.

“Kíli,” Tauriel uttered, her eyes pleading as she gripped his other hand once more. “I do not know how you should choose. But I bid you please: if it should come to a definitive choice between your brother or me, you must leave me to myself.”

A bitter ache rested in his glance as he stared back at her. Her green-and-grey eyes stood reassuring, but she hid the same anguish. Slowly, he began to shake his head. In her stomach, an unseen hand seemed to squeeze her organs as she realized the rain on his cheeks had mingled with his tears. He bent forward to conceal himself.

Tauriel cupped his jaw with her hand and guided his face up again. With the virtue and gentility of birdsong, she tenderly placed a kiss on his forehead, pressing her lips to his skin a bit longer than she usually would. 

“I would not,” Kíli breathed. “I just wouldn’t choose at all.” Right up close he was, so she could smell his musk over the rain. “I have never given much thought to whatever my life should look like, but I now know that I belong with you, _to_ you, until my days on this fickle earth are done.”

It could not be held anymore: she closed the small distance between their lips. The touch was aflame, hot like the crack of a tinderbox over dry straw. Her fingers disappeared in his thick, black hair, scratching gently at his scalp. He would take her lower lip between his teeth on occasion, making her shiver with the threat that would never be an action. 

The rain washed into their clothes at the neck, and she could feel Kíli’s trembling when he reached up to caress her cheek. Reluctantly, she released him. Yet when he looked at her, his eyes stood so sad that she reached again and gave a last, lingering kiss.

“You will freeze,” she muttered, and passed the cloak back to him. 

“I would gladly, if it meant sitting here with you forever,” he responded, putting a hand up to refuse.

Tauriel hesitated, but then slid down from the battlements and rested beside him. She was shorter then, but not for long. A flame pulled over her lips as she beckoned for him to come down, too.

He did, and she wrapped her arms over his broad shoulders. So they stood, with his back against her stomach, both sheltered from the rain in the garment. The world was curtained with the crying of the clouds above, and they could hardly now see Mirkwood in the east.

“Perhaps,” broke Kíli’s voice through the heavy pattering of water on stone. “If there is a chance you and I can be one without disturbance, we should take it.” It was a pained remark, and it walked through his throat heavy.

Tauriel held him a little tighter to herself. “You can sleep on it longer, amrâlimê,” she assured him. “Remember, we would never stray far from here.”

His head sank against her chest, and with it fell a bitter weight off his shoulders. He raised her hand to his lips and planted a kiss that sprouted to seal the conversation.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for delay! I've got heeeaps of work to do and little time to write.
> 
> For readers who have not read the book of the Hobbit: there's a part where the company meets a raven of dwarven breeding they can speak to. This raven tells them that Smaug fell, and helps the dwarves communicate with Dáin (I believe? It's been a while). Anyway, the ravens can talk, and I love that idea a lot so I just took that from the book.

The hall of council was adjoint to the great chamber of Thrór. In the days of the old king under the Mountain, most council had been short-run or passed in the great chamber, but the rebuilding of a kingdom was no small task. It needed many long hours of talk, and it came to pass there, where at the table sat nine dwarves who returned there frequently. 

Among them were of course Fíli and Dáin, though the lord of the Iron Hills would return eastward soon. Balin and Dwalin were present, as was Glóin. The other seats were filled by three dwarrows of the Iron Hills, most who were staying after their king would leave, and lastly by Kíli. The young dwarf stood beside the king, his gaze focused on the map before them, and listening to an endless list of tasks and plans.

“Envoys should be sent for Esgaroth and Dale. The towns of men are close at hand, and we could in any case use them on our side,” Balin urged.

Glóin nodded. “In trade, and war,” he filled in.

“Very well,” agreed Fíli. “Assemble a delegation to send to the lake. As for Dale, I would very much like to go myself, to see how Bard fares as master of the valley. I consider him my ally, and I figure it can wait a little until I am able to go. Nugin, I should like to ask your assistance in drawing up a contract for both towns.”

What followed was a long account of what the contract should contain. Nugin wrote on parchment, writing quick as suggestions were passed to and fro over the table. His braided whiskers jiggled around his face like small worms.

When all believed there was no more to be noted, the greying dwarf inclined his head and set down his pen. 

“What word did the ravens bring of Ered Mithrin?” asked Fíli then, turning his eyes upon Balin, who opposed him.

The older dwarf cleared his throat. “Little parties of goblins, some nests of orc at different borders. Rego reported no signs of structure in the underground. The enemy is scattered and few. It seems good timing.”

The straw-haired dwarf nodded thoughtfully. “Easy prey for watchful warriors.” He spoke seriously as he eyed his younger brother, who had sat down during the talk regarding the contracts of trade.

Just when Kíli returned the glance, a fierce pain shot through Fíli’s back. He inhaled sharply, and set his jaw. He reached down and pressed into the complaining muscle.

Most dwarves around the table missed it. Not Kíli, who drew his brows together in worry. It had been happening more frequently, and though Fíli’s leg function seemed to improve still, it scared him nonetheless. 

“Is all ready for the first scouting, Kíli?” questioned Fíli, pretending nothing had disturbed his brother’s thought.

The dark-haired dwarf folded his hands and entangled his fingers in front. “Nearly so,” he spoke, his eyes meaning on his brother. “We might depart overmorrow, it looks like.”

“Good.” The king averted his eyes, letting them slide over the map in front. “Balin and Nori have instructed the ravens to return there. They will be waiting, set to report back, should you run into trouble.” 

To that, Dáin muttered something. It was soft, but mutters echo in the halls of Erebor, and the Khuzdul word for elf snapped off the wall. Kíli tensed, unfolding his hands and placing them on the table flat. “What’s that?” he went.

For a while, Dáin just stared at him, the air between them taut as a bowstring. Then, as Fíli was about to continue to the next point of issue, he repeated his words.

“I said, you’re bringing trouble with you, lad. No good in bringing an elf to the edge of woodland.” He had stored his anger for months, sprinkling here and there when he saw it necessary. The lord of the Iron Hills disliked elves with great fire, and strongly discouraged Fíli from trusting their guest. “You mark my words, we might never see our dwarf prince again.” With those words, his eyes flashed at Kíli.

Boiling, the prince in question began to rise from his seat. He was about to yell across the room, defending his love with all heart he could muster, but Fíli lay a hand on his wrist. 

“Sit down, brother,” he said firmly. “Dáin, I thank you for the well-placed advice you have given me these past months, but I am trustful of Tauriel of the Greenwood. She has given me no reason for doubt, and she is skilled in stealth as well as battle. If she is willing to aid my brother in work I send him to do, I gladly accept.”

“You are making a mistake, I am sure of it,” the older dwarf grumbled from behind his beard. “Your uncle knew to mistrust the pointy-ears, he was right of it. Never has an alliance between dwarf and elf been fruitful. You are blinded,” His eyes glinted from under his heavy brows as he directed his speech again at Kíli. “by some undergrown slip of the heart.”

All eyes turned to the dwarven prince. A hush fell that pounded with nine heartbeats.

Kíli sat, words unchained in his mind, all but ready to spit fire. The lack of reason in older dwarves had never disturbed him as much as it did now, and he could bite his tongue off at the display of dismissal. He was young, it was true enough, but he was not dim-witted, and he had seen more than most of his age. 

Fíli’s hand still rested on his arm. Where it had held him previously, it could not have restrained him now. But as he was about to launch from his seat again, his brother’s hand closed tight about his wrist. The dark-haired dwarf had his anger settle quickly as he looked to see his brother with his face in a grimace, turning his face away from the gathering. 

Kíli clapped a hand on the table. “This council is dismissed,” he growled.

The dwarves took notice, and rose immediately. Sharp as knife was the last glance that Kíli and Dáin exchanged before the brothers were left alone. 

Then Kíli pulled away his brother’s chair, and helped him to stand. “Are you so certain I shouldn’t stay?”

“It is time, Kíli. We have yet delayed once, and it was once too many,” Fíli groaned through grit teeth. He set his weight on his good leg, but it conflicted with the nagging in his back, and he cried out as he sank onto his brother’s shoulder. “I should lie down,” he admitted wearily.

It was not the first time this had occurred. A cot had been placed in a nook, right out of sight. Kíli lay his brother down. Fíli appeared small in the shadows, the lamplight blocked in the corner of the room.

“Oh, curse me,” the blond dwarf breathed, his face relaxing as the strain eased. “Brother, you mustn’t let Dáin rouse you so. Don’t forget, we long lived in the vivid world of uncle Thorin’s tales, bewitched by the illusion that dwarves were good, and all else is bad. It is not so black-and-white, we know, but it is a spell not easily broken, and though it may over time, you will long be resisted.”

With regret, Kíli sighed. “I’ve really taken the arduous path, have I not?”

Fíli laughed hoarsely, closing his eyes. “You were never one to make deliberate choices. You have ever done whatever your heart desired,” he said. “and I would ever set you straight. Except now; I could not restrain your heart in this matter. Nor do I wish to.” 

“If I go,” Kíli began, chewing his lip. “it will not be so oft that you should right me anymore.”

“And we have spoken of it so often, that I more and more think you do not need my council any longer,” responded Fíli. “Our travels changed us, Kíli, and not just in body. For better or worse, you are wiser than you were, and more careful. If anything, I wish to see you plunge again into unsteady territory. It is where you fare best.”

From the depth of his pocket, he drew a piece of parchment. It was crumpled, having been folded and refolded over time so that the edges were worn. Fíli placed it in his younger brother’s hand.

“What’s this?” wondered Kíli.

“Something Thorin carried in his coat. It was given to me by Balin, some moons ago.”

With cautious fingers, Kíli spread the document in his hands. The parchment had worn thin, and it spread wider in his hands than he figured. 

It was a drawing, done by a child. The coal was smudged, and had covered the drawing in a sheen of grey dust, but the darker lines were still visible. It showed two creatures with swords in hands, smiling widely as they worked back an ugly monster, who appeared to be weeping immense tears. Overhead, in squiggly rune, stood the word _naudad_ : Khuzdul for brothers.

“Is this—”

“Yours,” filled in Fíli, watching his brother’s face with satisfaction. “Thorin carried it with him all this time.”

For a good moment, they were silent as Kíli studied the drawing intently. He let a calloused thumb run past the fading lines, as if he could pat their younger forms on the back gently. _You’ll come long ways from where you stand_ , he thought to himself. _Longer ways than you might wish._

“Thorin has given me all. The throne, his kingdom, the rule over his people and his treasure. I much wished to give you this for a share. It may not be of much value, but it is irreplaceable,” Fíli muttered, rubbing his hands together over his chest.

“It is worth a lot more than treasure.” Kíli nodded.

“That is what I thought,” agreed his brother quietly. Then, he proceeded to dig in his pocket once more. He retrieved a small leather pouch. “This, I wanted to present to you before you left. But we have time now.”

“You do know, this is just the first look around those mountains, Fíl. I should be back within a fortnight,” Kíli reminded his brother with a grin.

The king laughed openheartedly as he picked at the knot over the pouch. “I am well aware,” he chuckled. “You ruin the moment, brother.” 

The small knot came free. Fíli pushed himself up against the wall with little trouble. His younger brother sat down next to him with expectant eyes.

“This was not meant to come from me,” Fíli confessed, peering into the little bulb of darkness. “It might have come from our father, or Thorin. Now, they may but look upon us from the halls of our ancestors, and thus the task should fall to me. Here.”

Slowly, Fíli tilted the bag over Kíli’s hand, and the contents came free. Into his palm slid a fine golden chain, scarcely visible in the dim of the cavern. From it dangled a delicate charm, a droplet shapen by tiny gems that shimmered brighter than a summer sunrise. It held him in enchantment. With every flicker of the flames, a new hue revealed itself in the white specks of jewelry, making him feel as though he was learning to see again after long walking in blackness.

“For a blessing,” mumbled Fíli, waking his brother from his trance. “May ever the world meet you in the middle.”

In confusion, Kíli tore his gaze away from the necklace. He stared at his older brother some quiet moments before he realized its meaning. 

“Thank you, brother,” he croaked out, setting his eyes on the pendant again. “Did you find this in the treasure?”

“The chain, I found. The charm, I had made especially. The gems came into creation at the hands of elves long centuries ago, by aid of moon- and starlight.” In Kíli’s palm, Fíli spread the chain onto his fingers. “This combines the craft of elves and dwarves. I thought it meaningful.”

“More meaningful than you know,” uttered his younger brother, who grabbed his hand firmly. “This means the world, and then twice over. If you were not behind me, I would be lost.” 

“And if you were not behind me, I would be nowhere,” said Fíli with a smile. “Now, help me up. I will soon starve if I stay here much longer.”


	16. Chapter 16

The gentle thump of hooves on grassland rang steadily in their ears. Birdsong could be heard from about in the trees. Early May had brought an endless downpour of rain, letting grassland for miles around the Mountain sink into marshland. The month was coming to a close, and the sun had returned with fresh vigor, raising flooded rivers from the earth.

Erebor was now a day behind. They were six when they set out: five dwarves and an elf. Now they were but four, two of the dwarves having taken a turn to the east some time ago, to approach the Grey Mountains from the other end. The others crossed the plains at the border of Mirkwood, keeping the tree line to their left.

Tauriel thought the going slow. Dwarves traveled in armour, and with them were not the most skilled riders. She herself was clad in her leather riding costume, light to wear, the strengthened breast serving fine for protection. If she had her way, they would gallop swiftly to reach their goal. Yet the company was not unfriendly, and the weather was much in their favor. It could have been worse.

Their companions had strangely eyed both Tauriel and Kíli when they started, but the young prince was so full of life and song and jest, that they could not try to alienate him long. Along the way, the dwarves had sung. At times in the foreign, throaty tongue of the mountain folk, at times in Westron, yet still of tales and places unfamiliar to elven ears. 

The tunes lightened their hearts, and at the rise of sun on the second day, Tauriel rode abreast with Gafrín, who liked to play a little flute as Kíli and Hakhen lead the song from the rear.

Before noon, it was time for them to part from the other dwarves, who politely wished them well in their further travels. Kíli and Tauriel returned the words, and the dwarves went on their way.

Now they rode in comfortable quiet, at quicker pace than they had before. Kíli’s sprightly song had fallen to a hum, repeating fragments of those he had sang before. Tauriel rode silent in thought. Beyond the tree line, the forest grew dense quick. She peered into the gloom, thinking of the place that was once her home, miles away in the direction she looked to. 

Unwillingly, the spring harvest came to mind. It was no official event like late summer harvest: more of a gradual build of storage as great white roots, leeks, fennel and peas grew more abundant in the forest. 

Especially in days before her guarding duties, she had much enjoyed gathering for her people. The trips away from the castle made her think how beautifully nature shaped itself, without aid or mentor. Nature just _was_ , and they had the privilege of living in its given time. 

It prompted her to then think of dwarves, who willingly housed themselves in dark halls of stone, and she pitied them for a bit. It lasted up until she remembered the myth that dwarves came from stone, and were meant to stay there as they should return to it, much as men live and die from the earth. 

It brought other questions to mind, ones she had hand in. “Kíli,” she began. “Why are no dwarf women among the warriors in Erebor? Is it not your custom for women to fight?”

He turned to her with faint surprise. Kíli leaned back in the saddle, the reins loose in his hands as he bobbed along to the pony’s step. “I suppose not,” he said, after a brief pause. “Then again, there are very little dwarf women, and once they are wed, most choose to hide themselves in the caverns until they die.” He scratched at the coarse pepper on his chin. “I do not guess they would be harshly discouraged from fighting in war, should they want to. They just… don’t want to.”

“How come there are so little dwarf women?” asked Tauriel.

“They are dwarves, my love. Of course they are little,” said Kíli quickly, grinning widely at his own joke. “But in all honesty, I do not know. I fear no dwarf does. Dwarf women simply bear more sons than daughters. It has always been that way.”

Tauriel huffed and smiled at the weak jest. Then, she sank back in her private thought.

Kíli failed to contain his curiosity. “Why do you ask?” he wished to know.

Tauriel stared at a bird’s nest overhead. On its edge sat perched a mother dunnock, but the nestling appeared much bigger than the smaller songbird. It was a cuckoo, a bird known to lay eggs in other nests, and to eliminate the host’s own children. Mother dunnock could sense the young cuckoo was not her baby, yet succumbed to the simple signal in question for food. 

“I just wondered…” Tauriel trailed off, unsure how to phrase her question. “The elves do not know or care to know much about dwarves, and I have been told that— Well, that dwarves marry and then lock up their wives. That that is the way of things.”

Kíli looked at her dumbfounded, his mouth half-open in what was left of his smile. “That’s absurd,” he uttered. “ _That’s_ how the elves choose to phrase it? A strange people you are.” He shook his head. “Dwarven women like the comfort of the mountain halls well, and do not often come to light anyway. But it is by choice.” 

“Strange,” said Tauriel, but Kíli shrugged.

“Again, it has ever been like that.” Then his lips curled upward into an affectionate grin. “Imagine myself, locking you away from sight. And what a sight I would deprive the world of.”

Tauriel flushed red under his words, slipping her underlip between her teeth in suppressing of her smile. “Perhaps I would lock you away,” she said boldly. “So no eyes would fall upon you again, save mine own.”

With mischief in his cheeks, Kíli looked side to side. “You would need catch me first,” he then grinned, and spurred on his pony into a gallop.

As befit Tauriel, she rode a horse, much longer legged than the stout pony Kíli besat. On top of that, she was a more experienced rider than the dwarf. She caught up to him quick, her laughter flowing freely in the air. He maneuvered his pony deeper between the trees, off the path. Unwavering, she followed him, already reaching out to grab a hold of his reins. 

Suddenly, he drew the animal to a halt and Tauriel’s hand gripped into nothing. The movement was too swift, however, and the pony was brought off balance. It reared on its hind legs and Kíli sailed off, slamming to the damp forest floor with a thump.

When Tauriel heard him groan loudly, she stopped her horse immediately and descended. Her feet sank into the earth as she traipsed towards him. He lay with an arm over his head. “Are you alright?” She bent over him, her brows furrowed.

From behind his hand came laughter, and before she had time to comprehend this, she was pulled down into the mud. Next to him she lay astonished, until he reached and drew her in his arms, her head on his chest.

“As if you could lock me up!” he laughed in challenging tone. “You are too easy to fool.”

Tauriel joined him in laughter. “Only you can fool me, amrâlimê.” Lovingly, she stroked a strand of hair from his brow. 

Kíli raised his head from the ground and kissed her, his lips a dizzying blaze against hers. His thumb stroked warm circles behind her jawline, making the delicate skin beyond tingle with longing. 

All surroundings disappeared into the backdrop as their tongues explored one another. She just felt his gentle touch, and he just felt her silken skin.

At length, Kíli felt the damp draw into his cloak. He ended the kiss slow, and stood up in the shadow of the canopy. 

Tauriel dusted herself off and smiled at him. “We had best go on,” she said. “Some more miles to go.”

Reluctantly, Kíli nodded, and followed her into the sunlight, where the horses had strayed to graze the bright-green of the meadow. They both ascended. As she did, she gave him a mischievous wink. Then she sped off across the plains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw man I just love fluff I guess


	17. Chapter 17

Before the sun had sank behind the westernmost country, they reached the entry point. It was a cavern that had once been a gate, with many traces of dwarven craft. The great stone door was unhinged, and had been set against the wall on its long end. In the dark of the hall leading away from the door, nothing could be seen. The occasional flap of a bat’s wings rang from out of the gloom.

Kíli rested in the doorway and ran his hands over the carvings in the stone. In the bed of gravel beneath his boots, he could make out bits and pieces of the door that had chipped away over time. 

“Anything?” Tauriel returned. It amazed him still how well she could sneak up on him, even in places so lonesome that a drip of rain echoed like a waterfall.

“Looks deserted,” he said, looking around. Near the walls, some nervy weeds dared rear their heads, but in the middle of the path, all was grey. 

She followed his gaze to the floor, and stooped. “Trampled,” she remarked, picking up a wet and crumpled leaf and holding it against the western sky. “Someone was here recently.”

Kíli’s eyes wandered back to the black of the cave, staring intently as if foes would appear from the depths any second. His hand went out to the hilt of his sword. “Have you found anything?” he asked, not looking away.

“Yes,” she said, catching his arm and reaching until he released his weapon and caught her fingers. “Come.”

With as much stealth as they could muster, they crept back the way Tauriel came, away from the gate and up the steep mountain trail. During the climb, the sun fell. At first, they seemed to combat the light’s descent, but it began to outrun them quickly, and the glow of the sun set in shades of orange and apricot.

Tauriel led them to a small clearance on a small peak that overhung the gate. It was small but safe enough, and it was rounded with rocks to shield them from unwanted eyes and possible arrows.

“This is good,” Kíli nodded, plopping himself on his stomach on the edge of the overhang. He peered down, and then up into the sky. “The moon should be bright enough to witness anything that goes on.”

“If the clouds do not intervene,” said Tauriel, following his eyes. In the distance, they could spy the forest, where the horses were waiting to be called in time of need. Tauriel had taken time to train them in the way of the elves, so they listened to specific sounds, hard to recreate by outsiders. They were some ways different than the words the elves used, but worked well enough. She taught them to Kíli, and to Ori, who had expressed interest in her way with animals. 

For some time they sat on the edge, watching pink turn to purple turn to black, splattered with masses of stars and a bright, gibbous moon. Their meal consisted of cram and some undergrown tomatoes Tauriel had gathered during the day, of which the taste was still regretfully sour. 

Then Kíli lay himself down in Tauriel’s lap, and stared at her fair face in the light of the moon. “You know,” he began in whisper. “If time allowed it, I would lie here forever.” For a brief moment, he shut his eyes and breathed in the nightly mountain air. “Do elves do that? If they have all possible time, do they ever lie with their love for centuries on end?”

“Likely so,” nodded Tauriel pensively.

Kíli frowned. “You _would_ know, wouldn’t you? You must have loved before in your time?” He wrung his hands together over one of hers. “How long have you lived?”

“Six hundred and some years,” shrugged the elf. “But elves measure time different from the mortal peoples of Middle-Earth. You must think loving once in six hundred years is little. Yet elves love but once in their life. And of it, I only know so much.” With long, slender fingers she stroked his raven hair. “I know only that I gladly put my one love into you, amrâlimê.”

Again, the dwarf closed his eyes, his chest warming with her words. “ _Amrâlimê_. It sounds yet more wonderful when it comes from your lips,” he breathed into the night. Blindly, he searched for her other hand, and he squeezed both gently. “You have never told me what it means in your tongue.”

“ _Nin meleth_ ,” she replied. “Not near as beautiful a word as it is in Khuzdul. While your language is otherwise so strange.”

Kíli smiled. A hum bubbled in his throat. It blossomed into words, some he remembered clearly, and some not. He sang as far as he knew in the guttural dwarven tongue.

When Kíli got stuck on a line and halted, letting the last words ring in the darkness, Tauriel spoke. “What does it mean?” she wondered, in feather-light whisper.

“It is one of few songs the Khazad know that sings of the grace of the earth, instead of all that is beneath it,” Kíli chuckled softly. After, he sat for a while, thinking. Then he began again, the tune as much the same as he could work the words.

> _”From rock becomes the Khazad slow,  
>  In earthen riches he endures,  
>  When mountains among trees they grow,_
> 
> _Within the blackness, shimmer hides,  
>  Golden shine and jewels pure,  
>  The cavern dark, his greatest pride,_
> 
> _Had not he seen, out of the jet,  
>  The sapphires of summer sky,  
>  The rubies of the sun at set,_
> 
> _Autumn falls in golden glance,  
>  Will all beneath the ground seem dry,  
>  When leaves upon the wind they dance,_
> 
> _From rock becomes the Khazad slow,  
>  And to the rock he will return,  
>  Come blossom red or silver snow,_
> 
> _His home yet risen from the dirt,  
>  The mines never so brightly burn,  
>  As all the beauty of the earth.”_

“I should agree,” breathed Tauriel with a smile. “Nothing in the underground can match the wilderness in grace.” She closed her eyes and stuck her nose forward, into the open air. In gladness, she sighed. Then she looked back down, and added: “With one exception.”

Kíli yawned, and reached up to fidget with a strand of her auburn hair. “Which is?” he asked, unthinking.

“You, my love,” chuckled Tauriel. “Now sleep. Our days to come are restless, and you are weary.” She lowered Kíli’s arm with her own, and entangled their fingers. “I shall keep watch.”


	18. Chapter 18

She was woken by a gentle, but urgent prodding in her shoulder. Through her lashes she could make out Kíli in the mild light of dawn, his body a dark shadow over her. “Come look,” he hissed quietly, and stalked back to the edge of the ring of rock.

They must have switched guard but an hour past, for Tauriel felt heavy, as if she had barely rested at all. She gave herself a few moments to wake, and then she joined, accidentally startling him in the process. Her quiver and blades lay by their packs, but Kíli had his weapons, and she carried a hidden knife in her breeches.

Discreet as possible, her gaze slid over the edge of the grey. Many feet below, she made out hunched figures, clad in black, ugly even from this height. They spoke in thick, grating tongue: words that she could not understand, and made the damp morning sky taste of malice.

The orcs were few, no more than a dozen. Kíli had a hand on his bowstring, an arrow readied between his fingers. Tauriel, too, was tempted to let her feathers fly, but she reached out to hold onto his wrist. “Let us get a closer look,” she urged beneath her breath. “We do not know how many linger in the dark beyond the gate.”

Slowly, he nodded, not taking his wary eyes off the creatures. 

They gathered their belongings and crept along the mountain’s comb until they got better view of the entryway. However, the better view came with more wind, so they chose a midway point to sit still and watch.

Some sixteen orcs stood and argued in the doorway. If Tauriel had learned anything, it was that orcs were easy to turn on one another. This fact, in combination with their limited intellect, was their great downfall. If they remained unseen, it could well be that this lot killed some of their companions for them, in time.

“Come on. We can take this ugly bunch,” urged Kíli, spreading his arrows in his hands and counting Tauriel’s by eye. 

Tauriel was unsure what she had expected. Amused, she smiled at his impatient manner. 

At this, Kíli was confused. “What? We have the higher ground, and plenty of arrows.” 

Tauriel put a finger to her lips. “Quiet, we’re upwind.”

During the night, the sky had cast over, and a wind had picked up from the north, that blew a chill past the wall of rock on this end. The morning would come bright but grey, with little sign from the rising of the sun. This was certainly in favor of the orcs. 

As was the blowing sky about, for the scent of unwanted presence drifted into their midst. As one, they broke off their quarrel and looked along the mountain side behind. 

Kíli and Tauriel lay pressed against the floor, looking at one another as their ears pricked up for all that happened down by the gate. The bickering did not continue, as Tauriel had much hoped. Instead, a few wicked words were exchanged through sharpened teeth, and then came footsteps, heavy under clunky armor. 

On Kíli’s stomach lay his bow. Now, Tauriel pointed at it and gave a slight nod. Slowly, he put the feathered end to the string and let the weapon tense in his hands. She repeated his motions. Then, as the footsteps drew ever nearer, they sat up behind the stone.

At once, their enemies were aware of them. The vile creatures moved faster now, the need for stealth reduced to none. They clambered up along a ridge, where one slid in the gravel and fell down, while the others dodged him and ran as swift as their crooked legs would go.

Kíli was quicker to shoot, but his arrow hit an arm. Tauriel hit a skull – if orcs really had one – and the black soldier sailed down, after his comrade who was now scrambling back up. A second time, he was bowled over and fell all the way.

The path from the ridge slanted upward, but not as steep as their initial climb. As they approached, both archers dealt more fatal blows, firing arrow after arrow in lightning succession. Before the company had reached them, ten had perished.

As the foes stepped into the small clearing, the elf and dwarf rose and drew dagger and sword. It did not seem a dire situation, although it was a six-to-two. Kíli felt strong and whole. He was trained a warrior, and he realized he had seen too much politics and too little battle in the past moons. 

He gladly thrust himself forward, his broadsword feeling balanced in his hand. The strange weaponry of the orcs swished and clanked as he fended them off one by one. As he held up the weapon in battle of strength with one of his enemies, he drew an arrow from his quiver and drove it into another one of the black soldiers. 

Then he refocused his energy on the foe on his left. He carried a curved sword, blackened as if covered in soot. The orc let out a shrill grunt and strode forward. It did not throw Kíli, who danced back, and then forward to strike. The fight was a river, he felt, and the stream carried him graciously, guiding his hand. 

To his one side, another ugly face fought to leap through his rain of parries. To his other side, Tauriel was making off with one orc, and still fighting two others. She too was lost in the singing of blade to blade as she used her daggers to defend herself up close. 

While Kíli was finishing off his second foe, a soft whistle could be heard, followed by a sharp crack near his head. He turned in alarm, and saw, far below, an archer pointing a black shaft into the sky. Instinctively, he backed away. “Bowman,” he panted to Tauriel, turning his eyes back to the orc he had been fighting.

A second arrow whipped through the sky next to him, and he cowered, hiding himself behind the rock while keeping his defense best he could. It was not enough, for the blade of the black soldier tore through his sleeve and into his lower arm. The dark grey of his sleeve darkened with blood immediately.

Kíli growled in pain and anger, stepping forward again to drive his sword into the chest of the creature. Then, with swift movement and aim, he loaded his bow and pierced the marksman below. The orc fell to the ground and remained there, dead.

No other enemies could be seen around. Kíli turned.

Tauriel was tugging her dagger from the body of her last foe. When she turned, Kíli saw that she suffered a blow to the temple. Her skin had split, and the crimson looked bright and cruel in the pale morning light. 

“You’re wounded,” said Kíli, a bit shocked. He took her hand as she slid down with her back to the rock, her other hand covering her right eye and temple. 

“So are you,” countered Tauriel, pointing at his sleeve. Then, she nodded towards a broken arrow that Kíli had not noticed before, lying in the gravel where Kíli left the bodies of his opponents. “That one nearly took you. I turned to fend it off, and the orc took advantage.”

Kíli reached over and picked up the arrowhead.

“I am glad of it,” added Tauriel, staring at the shaft with one eye. “These could well be Morgûl-made.”

Involuntarily, Kíli shivered, very aware of the scar on his right thigh. Tauriel had nigh on cleared all the poison from the wound, but it burned grimly at times. He was not excited to taste the pain of that vile venom again. He dropped the arrow. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and began to dig in his pack for a clean rag. 

Gently, he cleared the blood off her cheek. Soon, Tauriel’s wound began to dry already. When he bound his own arm hastily, he rose to his feet, gazing over the mountainside. Nothing to be seen. The racket of the fight had woken no armies from the depths of Ered Mithrin: a fortunate sign. He squinted at the pallid sky overhead, tracing over the cloud cover.

Looking around once more, he whistled a quick, shrill rhythm. At first, the air about lay still. From a crack in the rock then ascended a swallow, brown and quick out of sight. When he was gone, Kíli ducked again behind their stone shelter, and waited.

It took some time before anything happened at all; it could not have been more than half of an hour, but to Kíli, it felt like half of a day. Then the flapping of wings interrupted their careful whispers. 

A large raven settled on the stone beside them, its cloak of dark feathers shimmering dimly in the colorless daylight. It cocked its head and crowed softly.

“Welcome, Rasj,” said Tauriel with a smile. She had met the young raven before. She was one of the boldest of the feathered allies of the dwarves. “How do you fare?”

“Well,” croaked the raven. “Plenty of lizards in nooks and cracks. ‘Tis spring again.” Then she quieted, looking expectantly at the duo.

“Any news from the other end?” questioned Kíli.

The bird clicked her beak. “Aye,” she crackled. “Gafrín sends his regards. Some goblins remained in the tunnels on the northern end. They took care to chase most of them out. Otherwise, the mountain appears empty.”

“Just what you had said, then.” Tauriel gave a nod to the raven. “Ered Mithrin is run out of residents.”

“Send regards from Kíli,” said the dwarf. “Tell them that a small nest of orc has been cleared on the southern entrance, but the cavern is yet to be explored.”

The raven cocked its head again. Then she spread her great wings and drifted up into the air, until she was just a speckle of jet against the slate of the mountain.

Kíli sat back down next to Tauriel, bundling his knees under his hands. “Let us rest here, at least until we hear back from the other end,” he suggested.

Her cut was beginning to scab already, he saw. A solemn look had settled over her, but now she smiled, carefully, and then winced. “In my life, I have guarded all lands within reach of the Woodlands. Not beyond, even though I knew there was a beyond.” Her head sank against the stone. “Before I came to you, I had never seen a mountain pass. I had not needed to.”

Kíli hummed quietly. 

“Now, I am defending an entirely different kingdom. But it carries a different weight. This is no choice between the peoples of Middle Earth. It is a choice between all that is good, and all that is foul and cruel.” 

Tauriel seemed to hesitate. Then, casting her eyes upon the peaks above, she continued: “My mother and father perished in battle with these evil creatures, as have many more of our people. Yet king Thranduil does not bother stepping over his borders to defend all that is good. It feels right to choose the living, even if I know that I alone cannot defeat the face of malice with mine own two hands.”

Kíli reached for her hands and placed a kiss on their backs, one by one. “If the kings of dwarves, elves and men cannot see that we fight a common enemy, they must be dim,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “and you are not alone.”

Their foreheads came together, resting in the middle with a comforting weight. For a moment, they breathed together, their eyes closed or in slivers, letting diffuse light drift through their lashes. 

“If only our people did not come between us,” whispered Tauriel eventually.

“Oh, to the depths with them.” Kíli shook his head. He sat up, and from a hidden pocket in his coat, he retrieved a small bag.

Tauriel looked on with curious eyes and mouth half-opened as he loosened the bow on the pouch. From it, something shiny fell into his hand.

“Tauriel,” he began softly, taking the fine chain by the ends gently, as if it would tear between his fingers should he press too hard. “I pray you will take this gift, and by it promise that you will be my wife.”

Her chest flooded with warmth as she bent her head forward. He accepted the answer and fastened the necklace about her neck, his rough hands brushing the soft skin, giving it goose prickles. When he was done, she looked up and kissed him. It was a deep, honest kiss; not long, but true. “I will gladly be your wife,” she said, when she released him. “May only death part us now.”


End file.
